


Satellites

by jennandblitz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Banter, Coming Out, Explicit Sexual Content, Guitarist!Sirius, I've written a band au, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Songfic, Sort of? - Freeform, Strangers to Lovers, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, it's happened, scottish!Remus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandblitz/pseuds/jennandblitz
Summary: Sirius Black is the guitarist for Starsign, a band on a meteoric rise to fame. One evening in Edinburgh and he finds himself face to face with Remus Lupin, gig photographer an in almost-criminally oversized punk shirt. Perhaps things aren't meant to be at first, but the universe has its ways...
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 43
Kudos: 313





	Satellites

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a Band AU, but never found the inspiration. The past few months have been tough, muse-wise, but my favourite band of thirteen years released a new album. The most [recent single](https://youtu.be/adbfJTd717E), this fic's namesake and inspiration, is an absolute banger of an LGBT anthem, and this fic was born! I'd highly recommend listening to this song, if you're able!
> 
> Thank you to FivePips for the fabulous beta and encouragement, and to stonecoldhedwig and letsdothepanic for encouraging my band nerdery. Of course, always, thanks to you for reading.

“Six weeks and we’ll be there,” Sirius says, sprawled on his back, phone dangling from long fingers. The screen is bright despite the dark room around him and Regulus lying on the other bed, and the face smiling at him is freckled and pale, hazel-honey eyes framed by fair lashes.

“I ken,” Remus replies, his Scottish brogue as thick as ever, in the slang Sirius had taken months to get used to— _I know_. “That’s still a wee while though, eh?”

Sirius scrubs his free hand over his face. “I know.”

It’s been a while, and it will be a while yet. A while longer until it’s something more than video calls and texts at 3am, thinking back to brief reunions, skirting around the words they want to say. Sirius can’t say them though. He can feel it bubbling in his chest whenever he’s like this, old _Strokes_ shirt and flannel bottoms, one hand resting on his chest as the other holds his phone, wishing he’d have his hand cupped around Remus’ cheek instead. He feels it _brewing_ every time, the almost painful way it curls around his throat and constricts his breathing, but it’s beautiful and warm too. Sirius is burning up, soaring somewhere in the stars when he’s here with Remus. He slides a glance sideways to his notebook, then to his guitar case propped in the corner. The next time they are together, Sirius will be able to say it, or rather— _sing it._

Remus falls asleep on the video call, talking about everything and nothing, his voice growing softer and softer. Sirius doesn’t let himself just _look_ for more than a few seconds before he hangs up. Music thrums beneath Sirius’ fingers as he curls on his side, wanting to stay up all night and just create, exist, soar, _burn_. But he has to sleep. They have another gig tomorrow, then a long drive into Spain. _Starsign’s_ biggest European tour yet is going better than he could’ve ever imagined, cheering crowds every night and the sight of Sirius’ family, his _real_ , true, found family, grinning ear to ear.

The stage suits all four of them.

Lily is all lithe and demure, alluring in the way her bass guitar seems to become one with her so easily, her voice like siren song. James is at home behind his drumkit like nowhere else, hitting every beat with a sort of showmanship only he can craft whilst still sitting down, spinning sticks and calling out to the crowd. Regulus is the kind of person who pulls in attention. He’s quiet—the rhythm of his guitar a thumping heartbeat atop James’ drums—not the showman Sirius is, or the heartthrob Lily is, but Regulus _breathes_ music, breathes a kind of fluidity into _Starsign_ the others don’t.

Sirius plays, letting music flow through him like it always does, like the water to Regulus’ air, rushing like the tide. He climbs amplifiers and stands on the very edge of the stage during solos. He crowd-surfs and lets them all carry him, guitar still against his stomach as he plucks away, laughing through Lily’s refrain.

_Starsign_ has become life for the four of them over the past six years. The past four albums have charted their bloom from adolescence, into adulthood and beyond, solidifying and congealing into real people with agency, goals, dreams. Sirius can remember each period in his life through those albums, the vinyls he and Regulus have hanging in their flat like family portraits.

It was on their second UK tour—after years of playing in seedy pubs and dingy back-rooms, finally ascending somewhere—that _Starsign_ first went to Edinburgh. The tour was more extensive than anything they’d don before, and it was something fans—those die-hards, from the tiny back rooms, with bootleg CD’s from the back of Lily’s car—had been baying for for years, and it set _everything_ in motion.

* * *

Sirius leans against the amplifier, Lily’s dulcet tones bouncing off the walls of the venue. His head is bowed, long, elegant fingers plucking an idle rhythm on the strings he knows just as well as his own heartstrings.

“Oi, Sirius,” Lily calls, her voice like treacle and sinew, binding and lively. When he looks up she nods towards his microphone, her red hair falling out of the French braid Regulus had put it in earlier. “Sound check your mic, love.”

Rolling his eyes, Sirius peels himself away from the stack of amplifiers and to his microphone, grey eyes scanning the people milling around.

Towards the back of the room Marlene McKinnon stands with her hands on her hips. Sirius has dealt with her a few times—she’s the promoter for nearly all gigs in Scotland, so it seems, and a complete riot. Her strawberry blonde hair reaches her waist and her sharp features are concentrated into a stern expression. The three photographers gathered before her look halfway between bewildered and awestruck.

It’s when Marlene gestures something that Sirius notices the man next to her. His brown messy curls are shoved beneath an olive green beanie, and his torso is absolutely _swamped_ in a _The Damned_ t-shirt. A plaid shirt hangs around his elbows, slipping off his shoulders and Sirius is willing to bet _that_ is four sizes too big, too. He looks focused and intent, a camera around his neck, one hand curled around the grip. Sirius’ stomach flutters.

He clears his throat and plucks along to his words as he tests the microphone. Sound checks are boring but that curly-haired photographer is holding _all_ his attention. He looks up as Sirius speaks into the microphone, humming then singing softly to test the range. His eyes are a bright shade of honey-brown that make Sirius’ fingers flutter like fairy wings over the frets of his guitar. He looks at Sirius, right over Marlene’s head—she’s five feet tall, if that—and watches him, unabashed. Being on stage, Sirius doesn’t give a shit about being watched, so he smiles, holds his gaze, _performs._

Sound check flickers by like a silent movie, the black and white background to those honey-whisky eyes. In the green room Sirius commandeers Marlene’s pile of papers from the desk and rifles through, looking for the media ID badges before the Glaswegian can spot him and squawk about what he’s doing.

_Remus Lupin._

Sirius bites his lip around a grin, feeling his stomach twist again. He wants to tuck himself into the corner of a bar and learn everything about this man, wants to sit on the edge of the water and write songs about that flicker of desire in his stomach and the taste of whisky on Remus Lupin’s lips.

The gig soars by, meteoric, light speed and Sirius feels he is at the helm of it, a pioneer stood on amplifiers like the bow of a ship into uncharted land. His fingers hurt in the best way—flittering over the frets of his guitar like a hummingbird at nectar, just tasting sweetness—as he plays, dances and runs and bounces along the stage, singing and cheering. Remus is on the nearside of the barriers, camera around his neck and a sort of pointed look of concentration that Sirius can’t get enough of. He snaps away, slipping past the two other photographers and the security staff to switch it up and get the best angles. Sirius tries not to think about how often the man ends up in front of his microphone as he plays, alive, spangling with starlight.

After the gig, Marlene informs them she’s set up an afterparty at a local bar. She gives them a half hour to go to the hotel to change before she expects them at the bar—with a glare so frightening Sirius daren’t disagree—so the four hurry back, high on adrenaline and chords, bass thumping through their hearts.

Sirius doesn’t mention the lingering looks and the embers in his stomach to his bandmates.He’s not sure if they even _know_ he’s queer in one way or another—ways he’s not keen on labelling because it’s just how he _is_ —and he doesn’t really want to air it tonight in the middle of a big tour. Regulus knows probably, with the fact they share a flat, and James knows because James knows more about Sirius than _Sirius_ does. If James knows, then Lily knows, because she’s intuitive and empathic and more observant than anyone he knows. So perhaps they _do_ know, but waving it in their faces seems so different. Now isn’t the time, not on tour, with stage lights flashing, with fame glinting just on the edge of the horizon.

Besides, he’s just been ogling the photographer for the evening, nothing more than that. But Sirius’ palms are clammy as they walk into the bar, Marlene eagerly waving them down towards some stairs. The whole basement has been reserved for the band, seeing as they don’t need to get up with the dawn tomorrow and drive to the other end of the country. They’ll have to leave by mid-morning, but if being in a band in their mid-twenties isn’t the best time to party, then when is? So Sirius laughs and puts an arm around Marlene’s shoulders whilst they’re at the bar, drinks sambuca with her and dances to the music.

When he shucks off his leather jacket and tosses it into a booth a half hour later, Sirius glances around the room to take in the group there. All the engineers are there, some staff from the venue, some more _artsy_ types too. Effy is even in the corner sipping a glass of most likely Chardonnay and talking to someone. There’s a journalist that James is chattering to, and Sirius sees a photographer with a shock of purple hair, one he recognises from the venue. If she’s here, then…

Sirius casts another glance around the room, sipping his beer, looking for those curls now, those freckles, those eyes. The idea of this man in the darkened corner of the bar, hand around a drink, his voice low and close, makes Sirius’ heart hammer. He finds him easily, at the end of the bar, in an animated-looking conversation with the beautiful bartender, whose locs are drawn back from her face, falling to her elbows. Sirius strides over without a moment’s thought, catches the bartender’s attention with a smile.

“Bottle of _Fraoch_ , please love,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar. His gaze slides sideways to the photographer, to _Remus_ , and the almost empty glass in his hand. “What are you drinking?”

Remus looks surprised for just long enough for Sirius to see it flicker across his face. He swirls the ice cubes around in the bottom of his glass. “ _Auchentoshan_ whisky,” and oh _fuck_ , his voice is just like whisky, just like honey and silk, sharp and sweet. “That’s good beer you’re drinking, too. Heather stuff, eh?”

Sirius’ grin widens—he can’t help it—and his stomach flutters pleasantly once more. “Yeah, it’s pretty good. Gotta sample the locals.”

When the bartender comes back with his beer, Sirius asks for another whisky, gesturing to Remus, and the bartender gives the other man a sly smile. They know each other then, but Sirius doesn’t mind.

“Not that I’m trying to get you drunk,” Sirius mutters, turning in his seat a little. “Sirius Black, by the way.”

Remus huffs a laugh and drains the amber liquid from the bottom of his now-empty glass. “I know who you are, I was at your bloody gig, wasn’t I?”

“Well, I bet some photographers wouldn’t care who they’re working with,” Sirius drawls, sipping his beer. “Not you though?”

“Not me, no.” Remus rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling and his cheeks are pink in the low light. “Remus, Remus Lupin.”

“I know. Your name was on the paperwork we got, media ID badges.” Sirius gives the bartender another smile as she returns with the whisky, the drinks going straight onto _Starsign_ ’s tab.

“Alright, Rem?” She asks, peering at her friend.

Remus grins, rolls his eyes again. “Yeah, Dorcas, I’m fine. Big boy, eh, able to handle myself.”

When she laughs and starts down the bar again Sirius looks to Remus. The lights of the street beyond are filtering through the high windows up to ground level, catching over his face. “Your friend not trust me? … Or you?”

“She’s just protective.” Remus sips his drink and his smile turns sharp and wry. “Although maybe a little wary of bad-boy-frontmen-of-bands who chat up her friend.”

Sirius barks a laugh around his mouthful of beer, grinning ear to ear. He doesn’t expect that somehow, the sharpness of his wit in contrast to the way he looks, the freckles, the too-big t-shirt, the almost shy smile. But Remus Lupin is turning out to be full of surprises and each one is more glorious than the last. “Oh yeah?” He leans in a little closer, sets the bottle down with a _clink_. “Am I chatting you up, then?”

“Are you?”

“What if I am?”

Remus’ gaze flickers downwards—to Sirius’ mouth maybe, _kiss me_ —before his own lips stretch into a smile. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Sirius smiles back, that fleeting moment of _kiss me_ floating away on the wind because they’re at the bar and no one knows he’s a damn queer and yeah, record labels might _say_ they’re more LGBT friendly nowadays, but they’re _not_. No one needs that on their plates, do they? So Sirius can refrain from it all, from the publicity.

“Good to know,” he murmurs, drinking in the sight of Remus, the bits he can allow himself to have.

“Sirius!” Regulus appears next to him and Sirius leans back, something like concern thrilling through his veins.

“Alright?” Sirius looks at his brother, trying not to overthink or overreact, when Sirius knows himself he’s a combination of over- _everything._

“Yeah, just wasn’t sure where you’d gone off to. Thought you’d be flirting with the bartender.” Regulus smiles, putting his arm around Sirius’ shoulder, throwing a smile towards Remus in a _who is this?_ kind of way.

“Ha. The bartender would string me up by my balls, I bet,” Sirius retorts, shooting a glance to where Dorcas is watching them closely. “Reg, this is Remus, one of the photographers. Remus, my snot of a little brother, Regulus.”

Regulus squawks in indignation, shaking his head. “Rude, you’re the awful one.”

“It looks to me like you’re both awful little snots,” Remus shoots back, sipping his whisky.

It’s Sirius’ turn to make a noise of indignation, as Regulus laughs and points vaguely in Remus’ direction. “I like him. Now let’s see if your photos are as sharp as your comebacks, huh?” Remus just chuckles in response, nodding in a way hat makes Sirius feel he’s entirely confident in his work. “Sirius, Effy wants you to go talk to that journalist James is chatting to, go rescue him?”

“Yeah, alright,” Sirius says, plucking up his beer. “See you around, Remus.”

So Sirius heads off to do his _duties_. This is business, after all, and Effy runs a tight ship. He chats to journalists and makes friends with publicists, drinks and dances. He doesn’t pay attention to the songs the bar plays, whether they play any _Starsign_ as a stupid little salute, too caught up in the whirlwind of the night.

He intends, eventually, to catch Remus by the elbow before they leave, and swap phone numbers or something, but the world seems to rush by in a slew of sambuca and dancing, letting loose after weeks of working hard. Marlene gets drunk and hooks up with the beautiful bartender—who tells them with a smile that this happens quite regularly, and if either of them weren’t entirely terrified of commitment it would be something so much more—and Lily and James disappear for a half hour, coming back infinitely more dishevelled and grinning.

Sirius tries not to think on what Dorcas says as the bar closes and ushers them out. He pulls on his jacket, looking around for Remus, to catch him before he slips off into the city nighttime, plaid shirt collar folded up against the nape of his neck. But he’s already gone, or Sirius doesn’t see him, and Lily hooks her arm through his to pull him into a waiting taxi before he can think of what to do next.

That’s what it is, then, Sirius thinks as he shuts the door to the hotel room behind him. Regulus is already asleep—Sirius and James had paused outside to have a cigarette—and Sirius is quiet as he slips into bed. He doesn’t linger on what might have happened, where it could’ve gone. It was a beautiful evening talking to a cute as all hell photographer with the softest curls and the sharpest wit. Sirius can remember that, he can compose it. His fingers are itching with the frisson of a new song, a whole new _album_ it feels like.

Morning light splashes across the pages of Sirius’ notebook, the ink a little smudged in his haste to pour the lyrics out of his throat and heart and mind and onto the page. The palm of his left hand is stained with ink as Sirius pulls on a hoodie and pads barefoot down the corridor to James and Lily’s room. It’s late enough for Lily to be awake now, and she’d just posted something on Snapchat, so Sirius knocks lightly at the door, notebook in his other hand. He feels a little manic, honestly, but he wants to embrace it, make the most of it.

“Morning love,” Lily says when she pulls the door open. She’s in her pyjamas—shorts and an old Queen shirt that was probably James’ once upon a time—with her hair in a bun and sleep in her eyes. Maybe it’s a common occurrence that Sirius wakes her early to write, because she doesn’t look concerned or annoyed. “Okay?”

“Yeah, inspired,” is all Sirius utters, gesturing with his notebook. “Can we write? I have a thousand ideas and can’t keep up with them. Reg is still asleep.”

“Yeah, James is sleeping too. C’mon.” Lily nods her head then starts back into the room, letting Sirius shut the door behind him.

Lily is back on her side of the double bed with the blankets over her knees, and Sirius sits at the foot of it, cross-legged, pulling off the cap of his pen with his teeth. James is asleep, tucked against Lily’s side. It’s a common occurrence for him too, sleeping through Sirius and Lily’s early morning productivity, so he snores softly as a backing track to the feelings they try to put into words.

* * *

The summer heat is sweltering as Sirius rakes his hair up into a bun. His distressed Bowie tee will probably come off ten minutes into their late afternoon set, but he at least keeps up the pretence for now. They’re at Leeds festival—a fucking goal of a lifetime when they’d first set out—and the world is alight and buzzing around them. Sirius feels like they’ve _made it_ , like he and his friends, their little band set up in James’ summer house when they turned seventeen, is a real thing. People out there will be chanting _Star-sign, Star-sign_ in a few minutes and Sirius’ heart will syncopate with their calls and he will soar and fly and be _alive_.

_Solar Flare_ , the album Sirius writes just after that first Edinburgh gig, that evening talking to Remus Lupin, is an uncharted success, filled with energy and light, a kind of exuberant hopefulness that Sirius—somewhat nihilistic by his own admittance—has a hard time grasping usually. It gets roaring reviews from all the people that matter, and a few from the people who don’t. Sirius often wonders, as they’re playing the songs on stage to cheering—growing and growing—crowds, whether Remus listens to this album, whether the man he’d had that fleeting rendezvous with knows how tightly he is knitted into these riffs.

Sirius is not a particularly sentimental or wistful person. He doesn’t think about what he and Remus _might_ have had, if they hadn’t been dragged away at the end of the night. He remembers wonderful conversation and a helium balloon of lightness, sweetness, within his chest. That’s all he needs.

The crowd is cheering out beyond the stage, chanting for another band. It will never get old, Sirius thinks, listening to it and feeling his heart hammer. It had been strange at first, adjusting to the sharp spike in recognition the band had had after _Solar Flare_. Sirius, contrary to popular belief and his attitude on stage, doesn’t particularly like the attention. He performs and plays and makes a spectacle of himself under the hot press of stage lights, but out of them, he’d much rather put on his sunglasses and sit in the local Starbucks without someone coming to chat to him. In the spring he’d had to make all of his social media private, or rather, create a public profile. It’s been a steep learning curve, but Sirius wouldn’t change it for the world.

Listening to the music, Sirius rounds a corner towards the green room—which seems vastly complimentary for a trailer behind the stage—and crashes straight into another body. “Fuck, sorry mate.”

“Shite, watch where you’re going, eh pal?”

_Fuck_. Sirius recognises that voice anywhere, even after just a few hours in a bar, with music blaring and bass lines thumping. “Remus fucking Lupin?”

“Sirius.” Remus looks the same but different, all at once. His hair is shorter, undercut just a little with the curls grazing his forehead. His freckles are still just so, much more obvious in the summer sun. He’s _still_ in a baggy band tee but it’s _The Clash_ this time, paired with denim cut-offs and Vans. His camera is in one hand, held out of the way of their collision. Sirius wants to kiss him. “Hi.”

“Hey… how have you been?” Sirius feels his phone buzz in his pocket—it’s probably Regulus wondering where he is—but he doesn’t look at it. Not with Remus here.

“Aye, good,” Remus replies, rubbing a hand over his cheek. He looks just a little sunburnt, pink across the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. “Bit last minute being here though, jumped in for a pal after she broke her leg wakeboarding in Cornwa—Aye, I’m good.” He bites his lip, shifts his weight from side to side. Sirius thinks he’s imagining the way Remus’ honey-malt eyes linger on his mouth.

Sirius can’t help but smile. That voice floods his insides with molten warmth. “Yeah? Good festival to work at though, tonnes of connections I bet.”

“Yeah.” Remus glances around. They’re in a little alleyway between two trailers, with the sounds of the band still on stage behind them and no one around. It feels like a little pocket of space, trapped in the here and now, strung up with possibility. “Picking up old connections too.”

“Yeah?”

“You made yourself scarce last time,” Remus says, glancing down and fiddling with the lens cap of his camera.

“Lily dragged me into a taxi. I was… looking for you.”

God, it feels so awkward, biting out little snippets of feeling, dangling like bait in the water between them to see if they bite. Remus’ eyebrow hikes just a little as he steps a fraction closer. “Yeah?” Now Sirius _knows_ he’s not imagining Remus looking at his mouth.

“Yeah.”

It’s impossible to tell who steps forward first, who pulls the other in to the cymbal crash of a kiss; but soon enough Sirius has Remus pressed against the side of the trailer and Remus has Sirius’ bottom lip between his teeth. Their bodies slot together with the most beautiful slip-catch of friction, Sirius tasting salt, sunscreen, sugar on Remus’ lips, gasping. One of Remus’ hands cups the side of his neck, holding him close as if he’s concerned Sirius will disappear, the other holding his camera out of their embrace, most likely. Sirius has no intention of disappearing, one hand curled around Remus’ upper arm, the other tangled in those soft, light brown curls.

It’s impossible to tell who steps _back_ first, too. The roar of the crowd swells out of nowhere and footsteps seem to draw closer then suddenly they are breathing heavily, both sweat-sheened and eyes bright.

“Fuck,” is all Remus says, wiping his hand over his face.

Sirius’ phone buzzes in his pocket again, and he knows their set is up next. He needs to go, but he’s looking at Remus Lupin slumped against the side of a trailer with Sirius’ kisses still on his lips and he doesn’t want to. “I have to go, we’re on next.”

Remus nods, rakes the same hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at Sirius.

“Hey. M’not running away.” Sirius reaches out and puts a hand on the other man’s arm and his skin burns like the surface of the fucking sun. Sirius wants to walk on it, burn up, evaporate and dissolve. “I really have to go.”

“I know.”

“Add me somewhere. Snapchat, Instagram, Twitter, I don’t care. It’s all the same name, my private one. BlackStar.”

Remus peers at him through caramel curls, his lips just slightly parted. “Aye, alright. I will.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll add me back, eh? Your private account.”

Sirius glances down the alleyway, feels his phone buzz again, and looks back to Remus. “Of course I will.”

“ _Sirius fucking Black!”_ James’ voice _booms_ through the already tremulous air.

“Shit, I have to run.” Sirius smiles at Remus, wants to kiss him again but there’s too much distance between them now—physical and mental—so he takes a step back towards the main thoroughfare.

A few paces away, Remus pipes up. “Ey, Sirius?” He turns to look back over his shoulder at the other man, his breath catching. “This new album? It’s fucking great.”

Sirius smiles, his stomach flipping. He wants to say _I wrote it after that night in Edinburgh_ , but it seems too much, too vulnerable, despite the fact he has the taste of Remus’ skin on his lips. “Thanks.”

The stage is under Sirius’ feet only a few moments later, and James is counting in their opening number with happiness and energy spilling from his throat. Their set has been artfully fucking crafted by James and Regulus. Sirius and Lily write the songs, but James and Regulus have a particular talent in curating a good set, knowing jus what it needs. James talks about how it feels, the narrative, the emotions of the songs, whereas Regulus is a little more pragmatic. He’s the one that produced most of the album so he feels close to it, the same way a parent is reluctant to release their child’s hand and bid them farewell into the wide world.

Sirius plays. He does what he loves on stage, plays music, plays a part, plays up to the crowd. This festival has been a goal for them for years, and now here they are. It might be an afternoon slot, but they’re on the main stage, and there are people singing along.

There’s a moment at the end of an old favourite, where Lily and Sirius’ voices have faded away, left with the soft undercurrent of a cymbal roll from James and a floating melody from Sirius’ guitar, where the crowd is shouting the lyrics back at them.

_Home could be anywhere when I am holding you_.

It’s an indescribable sensation, swelling in Sirius’ chest like the crest of a wave. These people, this crowd, are singing the lyrics of their song back at him, the whole crowd like a choir. Sirius looks over to Lily, his grin broad as the sound washes over him. Lily is stood on a speaker, on the peak of a mountain looking over at a vista. Sirius can imagine the way she feels—she wrote those lyrics about her relationship with James, moving out of their parent’s houses and into the unknown with each other—and he wonders if _anything_ can get better than this.

Later that evening, when Sirius finally remembers to check his phone amidst the small booze-up _Starsign_ are having in celebration, he sees a friend request or two. Remus’ Twitter handle is a rather professional looking _LupinPhotography_ , but his Snapchat name is _MoonySnaps_ and Sirius decides he’d much rather speak to the man there, beneath all the trappings of professionalism and appearances.

As is usual with social media and the sprinkled topping of chemistry, the conversation is short and playful. Sirius opens with a picture of the table he’s sat at, the whisky between his fingers. Remus shoots back with his laptop and something about _you lucky musical types, I’m editing_. Then Sirius can’t help but give a brash comment— _but you’re looking at my beautiful face, so it’s fine_ —and Remus, typically, gives as good as he gets. His next Snap is him flipping Sirius off, with the explanation that _despite your ego, Black, Starsign wasn’t the only band I photographed today._

Sirius tosses his phone onto the table, snorting in laughter. He and James go outside to the smoking area and the conversation—as it often does between two childhood friends, even without alcohol—turns to nostalgia and memories. James says something about marrying Lily, which he’s talked about for so long, and Sirius laughs, slings an arm around his shoulders. James leans into him, taking a long drag of his cigarette, and they stay there for a while, in comfortable silence, as they look across the city skyline. His phone vibrates in his hand and he glances at it to see another Snap from Remus. The stars seem to glitter as he looks away from his screen back to the sky.

_Maybe this goes somewhere_ , he thinks, touching his bottom lip for the briefest of moments.

* * *

Helsinki is cold and dreary at 3am and Sirius can’t sleep. The rain is hammering down, somewhere between sleet and a deluge of snow that is only adding to the layer on the ground. He’s in a beautiful hotel though, so that helps, with a skylight above the bed. Sirius can watch the water pooling on the glass, occasional snowflakes landing in the puddle.

It’s been three months since _Starsign’s_ gig at Leeds Festival, and that heated kiss with Remus Lupin backstage. They’ve been texting and what Sirius _likes_ to call flirting ever since and Sirius feels his stomach twist pleasantly every time _MoonySnaps_ pops up on his phone.

The warm pulse of adrenaline that had set in Sirius’ bones whilst they were on stage at _Tavastia_ is starting to abate just a little, and he wants to keep a hold of it as best he can. They stayed at the venue for a while longer after their gig, manning their merch booth—b _ecause you can never lose touch with your roots, Sirius,_ says James—and having a few drinks.

Perhaps it’s the taste of rum lingering at the back of his throat that makes Sirius pluck up his phone and snap a picture. His face is half buried in the pillows, hair haywire, and the stupid Snapchat filter he can’t resist makes his already silver eyes gleam. Without thinking too much he sends it to Remus, with a caption lamenting the fact he’s still bloody awake, imagining the other man will be asleep by now.

The vibration of his phone beneath his wrist a few moments later jolts Sirius out of a half-assed daydream about being somewhere warm—the Bahamas maybe, with a drink in a coconut. Remus’ reply is a picture of him smiling, chin on his palm.

_Hey there Sirius, what’s it like in Helsinki city?_

“What a fucking line,” Sirius mutters to himself. Blissfully, the room is otherwise empty, with Regulus sleeping along the hall. That’s a plus of making it as a band, no more bunking with your snoring brother.

Remus looks gorgeous though, his eyes sharp and ringed in the dark of sleeplessness. His freckles are paler now as they’re going into winter, his hair a little longer. Sirius lets out a breath and feels his stomach clench. On tour, Sirius is always full of adrenaline, of a vivacity he can’t keep a hold of anywhere else, and that translates into energy in so many ways. He screenshots Remus’ snap, not caring it will notify him of it.

The Scot’s reply is instant— _saving that for a rainy day?_

_Rainy here already in Helsinki_ , Sirius shoots back, smiling softly.

Remus’ snap is a little closer now, lying on his side with one hand tucked under his head. Sirius can imagine the taste of his lips, licks his own to wet the suddenly dry skin. _Poor thing. Whatever will you do?_

Sirius’ smile widens into a grin as he feels his stomach clench, feels the steady drip of heated desire gathering in the basin of his pelvis. Remus _knows_ , he’s sure, this little dance of flirting between them, limned in that witching hour air, the glint of the stars. Remus knows, and he must know Sirius knows too. Sirius shifts, rolling onto his side, phone still cupped in his hand, cock stirring in his pyjamas.

_I have a few ideas…_

Remus feigns a confused expression in his next reply. _Oh really?_

_Call me_. It comes out like an order, and Sirius doesn’t care enough to downplay the urgency with which he wants to hear Remus’ voice, wants to travel this road with him, hear what Remus sounds like when he’s moaning Sirius’ name. It’s barely a second before the call comes through, and Sirius answers as he presses the phone to his ear. “That was quick.”

“Didn’t want to miss it.” Remus’ voice is honeyed and sharp all at once, husky with the early morning and late night all at once.

Sirius huffs a laugh, letting his eyes close. “I should be offended. M’not giving a show.”

“Mm, that’s a shame. We could collaborate,” Remus hums.

“We could,” Sirius agrees, trailing his fingertips over his stomach, through that sparse trail of dark hair. “What are you thinking about?”

Remus swallows audibly and Sirius hears the rustle of fabric. It makes his stomach clench, his cock twitch in a hard-to-ignore bid for attention. He wants to take his time though, wants to draw this out. “You. You in your hotel room. In some fancy hotel bed looking fucking obscene.”

“Yeah? I am. The bed’s real comfy.” Sirius trails his fingers back up his stomach, circling idly around one pink nipple, pinching just a little.

“And I’m in dreary fucking Scotland,” Remus huffs.

“What would you—what would you do, if you were here?” Another pinch, and Sirius’ cock gives another twitch. Remus Lupin, here with him in this fancy bed, in this fancy hotel. Remus Lupin, with his hand down Sirius’ pyjamas or his mouth biting kisses over his hipbones.

“With you?”

“Yeah, with me. In this fancy hotel bed with me, in the middle of the night. There’s a skylight, you know. You’d look fucking great in starlight.”

“Fuck. I’d... I’d want you naked. Want to see you, kiss you.”

“I want that too,” Sirius agrees, fingertips snaking back down towards the waistband of his pyjamas. The image springs to mind so easily; Remus here, curls splayed across the pillow, Sirius straddling his narrow hips and leaning down to kiss him fiercely, rolling their hips together. “M’half naked now. Always sleep topless.”

“Yeah? I wanna see.” Remus’ breath sounds shallower and Sirius’ brain is already trying to match that to an image, wondering what he looks like, how debauched he looks, whether he’s got one hand around himself already.

Sirius can’t resist though, and snaps a quick picture. It’s mostly his upper body, but it’s so obvious his hand is pressing over the swell beneath his pyjamas. “Swap,” he murmurs into his phone.

Remus groans just as Sirius gets the notification that he’s read it, and his pride blooms at that sound. “Oh Christ. God you’re fucking stunning. I wanna kiss the dip of your hip, wanna bite it.”

“Yeah?” Sirius’ breath hitches as he circles a palm over his rapidly-hardening cock. His phone vibrates a second later and it’s Remus, lying on his bed. His shirt is rucked up around his waist, his pyjama bottoms dangerously low on his hips and Sirius’ mouth goes dry. “I wanna do more than that,” he murmurs back, his voice low with pleasure and promise.

“Are you—fuck—touching yourself?”

“Yeah, I am. Slowly. Getting hard thinking about you and how you taste.”

“Shit,” Remus mutters. “I’ve been half-hard since you sent that first snap. Trying to tell myself not to wank at some famous bloke’s picture.”

“Who’s that then?” Sirius practically purrs, pressing his palm a little harder and imagining Remus squirming in his seat, trying to will away his insistent arousal but it’s too much.

“He’s in this band. Bit of an arrogant prick but he’s hot as anything. So fuck—fucking sexy. Worked a gig for them once, took a thousand fucking photos of him.”

Sirius laughs, low and soft and piqued with a moan at the end as pleasure thrums through him. “Yeah? You get all worked up when you were editing? Looking at me on stage?”

“Couldn’t get any fucking work done. _Fuck_. What are you doing?”

“Mm, looking at that picture you just sent. Touching myself, but I wanna make it last. Trying to decide if I should give in and just—mmmm—wrap my hand around my cock.”

“Jesus.”

“I’d rather it be your hand, you know. Rather have you here, straddling my thighs, with your hand around my—myhard cock whilst I kiss your neck and tease you.”

Remus moans then takes a shaky breath. “I’d rather have my mouth on you.”

“Shit, babe.”

“Babe?”

“Yeah, babe,” Sirius says around a chuckle. “Calling you babe while I touch myself, thinking about you, your mouth on me.”

“Mm, I like it,” Remus murmurs back. “Would you call me babe when I kiss my way down your body and suck your dick? Fuck, right—right to the back of my throat?” It’s Sirius’ turn to let out a slew of swears at that, as Remus continues. “My mouth, all wa—warm and wet, around your dick? Shit, with one hand stroking you too. God, Sirius, I—I wanna find out what makes you moan.”

Sirius gives a sharp moan, his hips twitching upwards as he imagines Remus’ mouth around him, the soft suction, the swirl of his tongue. “Fuck, I’ll call you whatever you like with my cock in your mouth, babe. I bet you’re so—mmm—good. I’d hold your hair back, so I could see your face, tangle my fingers in your curls. You’d look so sexy.”

“You given in yet?” Remus’ voice is soft. “Got—got your hand around yourself?”

“Not yet, babe. Patience.” God, he wants to though. He wants to shove his pyjamas down and stroke himself to completion, let Remus hear him moan and pant.

“I have.” He lets out a luxurious moan. “Couldn’t wait any longer, thinking about going down on you.”

Sirius’ phone buzzes. He pulls it away from his ear to see Remus, with his head thrown back, lips parted in a little gasp. “God, look at you,” Sirius breathes. _Finally,_ he gives in and slides his hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. The moan he gives is half performance and half truth, the sweet relief of actual sensation, the prospect of the two of them.

“You sound so good. Jesus, I wish I was there with you.”

“Me too,” Sirius murmurs, pausing briefly to thumb over the head of his cock, smear the bead of pre-come there down his aching shaft. “I want you here. Wanna spend hours taking you apart.”

Remus makes a noise from the back of his throat and Sirius can just imagine the glorious expression that comes with it. It makes his own hips arch upwards, to tighten his grip just a little around his cock. “Ye—yeah? I want that.”

“I’m torn between—mm—between holding your hips down whilst I suck you off, or pulling you up and wrapping your thighs around my shoulders so I can go down on you whilst you’ve got my cock in your mouth.”

“Jesus fuck,” is all Remus manages to get out, with another little strangled noise. “Yes. God, the second one. I just—shit—wanna come.”

“Yeah? Fuck, me too. I want your hard cock in my mouth whilst you go down on me. Wanna—fuck—hold onto your hips and get my hands on your arse so I can pull you closer and let you come down my throat. Swallow you down and taste you. Dig my fingers in, leave marks on your arse cheeks.”

Sirius can feel his orgasm drawing nearer, heat and pleasure gathering at the pit of his stomach, body tightening in anticipatory shudders. He doesn’t want this to end because then they will hang up and Sirius will still be here in Helsinki with the sad remnants of a handjob and a half-arsed clean up. He wants to stay here, suspended in ecstasy, forever; until he’s back in Scotland and he can truly find out what Remus Lupin tastes like.

On the other end of the phone, Remus makes another little noise, his breathing ragged and shallow noise. Sirius grabs onto it, wants to eke it out, tease out the thrummings of his vocal chords, climb into Remus Lupin’s throat so he can see the seat of those noises, hear the moans at their origin. He closes his eyes, imagines Remus’ face before him, mouth slack with the knife-edge of his completion.

“Mm, I’d like that too. Only problem is I wouldn’t get to hear all these beautiful—ahh—noises if you had my cock in your mouth, and I fucking love hearing you like this. Are you gonna come, babe? Come for me.”

“Oh fuck me, _shit_ , I’m co—coming.” Remus breaks the phrase with a sharp moan, his breath hitching with the following gasp. Fuck, Sirius can just see it now, head thrown back, eyes shut, fingers wrapped around his cock—it’s fucking perfect in a way cocks shouldn’t be described but it’s fucking _perfect_ —as he spills over his own stomach, rising and falling with his panting. Sirius licks his lips, presses his hips up against his touch, thumbs over the head of his cock and hisses at the shot of pleasure.

“Jesus, you sound so fucking good when you come, you sound so sexy—shit,” Sirius mutters, twisting his wrist on the upstroke now, trying to keep the precipice of his pleasure at bay but Remus sounds _so good_.

“Fu—fuck, Sirius, _fuck_.” Remus is panting around the words and they send tremors through Sirius’ nerves, his fingers almost _shaking_ wrapped around him. He moans back, eyes still closed to keep that image of Remus in his mind. “Fuck, I wish I were there. So when you come you can co—come down my throat, _shit_.”

_Jesus_. Remus still fucked out from his orgasm, Sirius pulling back from lavishing his cock with attention just enough to gasp on the edge of his own. Remus’ mouth around him, warm and wet and gasping. Sirius comes with a low moan, his hips arching up as he squeezes around the base of his cock. His come is hot and sticky on his stomach and he wishes it were Remus’, wishes the other man was here to lick his fingers clean and grin at him, kiss him desperately, as if he were air.

“Fucking _Christ_ , Remus,” Sirius gasps when he can speak further than moans or ragged breaths. He can hear Remus once the ringing in his ears abates, hear the soft huffs of his breath like the ocean waves.

“Well, sh—shit. I didn’t expect that when I opened your snap,” Remus quips, humour clear in his voice despite the way he’s still out of breath and Sirius imagines still wonderfully undone and debauched.

“Me neither, goddamn.” Sirius snags a tissue from the conveniently placed box on the bedside table and hastily wipes up. They’ll have to hang up soon, he imagines. He doesn’t want to.

“Are you… damn, I can’t feel my fucking toes. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good, yeah. Fucking great, Christ.” Sirius swallows, his mouth dry as he sits up to throw the handful of tissues into the bin. He wonders whether Remus is doing the same, wonders if they will ever do this together, in person. “Are you?”

“Aye, I’m good,” Remus says, his voice low like malt whisky again, threaded with sleep. They’ll have to hang up soon, he thinks. He doesn’t want to.

But, knowing they are together in this way at least, knowing that this reaches between them across the endless sky, like telephone wires or ley lines, helps just a little. It helps to know that Sirius can message Remus in the depths of the night and, providing he doesn’t immediately regret this encounter, get some kind of release or togetherness.

Sirius thinks of the openness of space often, the vastness of the universe expanding out before him. He thinks of orbiting aimlessly, adrift amongst _Starsign’s_ ascent to fame. He thinks of the gravity around Remus Lupin, pulling him in.

The phone line is quiet for a brief moment. They’ll have to hang up soon. He doesn’t want to. Sirius listens to Remus’ breathing fall back into a steady rhythm, the groan of mattress springs as he no doubt shifts. Is Remus thinking the same things? Is Remus reluctant to hang up too?

“You probably have to be up early tomorrow,” Remus says, after Sirius lets out a long breath.

“Yeah, I do.” Sirius clears his throat. “I’ll snap you the gig set up tomorrow probably? We’re in Oslo.”

“Aye, that’d be nice,” Remus agrees.

“Yeah… Okay. See you, Remus.”

“Bye.”

* * *

_We’re at the venue for soundcheck. See you soon? x_

Sirius throws his phone onto the sofa in the small room backstage. They’re in Glasgow this time, and it feels as if they haven’t been away from Scotland for too long. But really, it’s more like they haven’t stopped—working on their next album, taking advantage of the added publicity of a magazine feature, then embarking on a European tour. Sirius is almost jittering to get back on stage, after a day travelling up from the north of England. When he’s in tour mode, as it were, Sirius is overflowing with energy on and off the stage, powered solely by adrenaline.

“Here’s my favourite Londoners!” Marlene calls, her Glaswegian accent booming over the air. She throws her arm around Lily’s shoulders, claps Regulus on the back. “How’s it going?”

The conversation flows quickly, everyone animated within the flurry of activity. Sound check comes swiftly, and Sirius is the first to notice the arrival of a few fresh faces, with backpacks and cameras, lanyards around their neck. Immediately, he looks for brown curls and distressed punk shirts.

Remus isn’t there at first, and Sirius’ heart seems to turn leaden. His phone is in the green room, he realises as he pats his pocket, but then Regulus calls to him to try again with a little more treble and he has to shake it loose. He’s just a little nervous about seeing Remus, especially since that heated snatch of a kiss at Leeds Festival, and the resulting late night texts or Snapchats, drunk on desire and longing. It’s different online, through a phone screen, even more so when it comes to sex. Of course, there’s no guarantee they’ll have sex tonight, but Sirius feels anticipation thrumming through him just at the idea of it. It’s been months since they’ve seen each other, and while they’ve spent so many sleepless nights on the phone to each other, it’s never quite the same. The urge to kiss Remus whilst looking at his phone screen, other hand wrapped around himself, has never abated. Maybe tonight he’ll get to do that.

Sound check is a drag. The acoustics are great in the venue, but something isn’t going quite right technically. Sirius is glad to get off stage once everything is correct, and sprawl in the green room for a few minutes.

“Hey, Sirius,” a voice says as he’s stepping backstage, and he can recognise that accent _anywhere_. Sirius spins to be greeted with a camera flash, then a toothy grin from Remus behind it.

“You missed the talk from Marlene!” Sirius retorts by way of a greeting, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing?”

“I wanted to capture that look on your face when you first see me.” Remus gives him a shy little shrug, a chuckle bubbling out of his mouth. “I know, me and Marly are best pals now, so it’s good,” he continues, talking from the corner of his mouth like cigarette smoke. Remus leans in a moment later to press a kiss to the corner of Sirius’ mouth, but Sirius catches the other man before he does, hand around his arm.

“Hey, the rest of the band don’t know yet… Like we talked about, huh? Not fair on either of us.”

Remus’ brow furrows for just a moment before he gives a nod. “Yeah, makes sense.”

“That’s still alright, yeah?”

“Ha, yeah, it’s fine, Sirius.” God, he’ll never get over the way Remus says his name, sharp and rough, then smooth, like the finest Islay whisky. “There’s nothing I want _less_ than the attention of whoever the fuck follows yous on TikTok.”

“Jesus, yeah alright.” Sirius chuckles, taking a long glance around the corridor as he does. It’s empty, mercifully, but only for a moment. That’s all he needs, though. Sirius hooks his arm around Remus’ waist and pulls him out of the fire escape to his left. The dingy alleyway beyond is damp with rainwater and strewn with rubbish, but Sirius doesn’t care.

He crowds Remus against the wall and kisses the tilted corner of his mouth, like he’d daydreamed of for months. It’s barely been days of silence between them since that meeting in the height of summer, mostly texts, snapchats, the occasional call. But the vines between them, searching for sunlight, are slowly winding together, twisting around each other so that Sirius wakes in the morning thinking of Remus.

“We can make up for it tonight,” Sirius mutters, his eyes on Remus’ lips, on that freckle at the apex of his cupid’s bow that he wants to lick. “The hotel put Reg and I in single rooms… Come back with me?”

Remus rolls his eyes, his camera in one hand over Sirius’ shoulder, precious and out of harm’s way. But then he smiles, kisses Sirius as if he could resist at all, and mutters something affirmative against his coffee-and-cigarette skin. “Aye, alright then,” like honeyed whisky, like an Old Fashioned with the twisted zest of a nip of teeth on Sirius’ lower lip.

The whole gig Sirius is bursting with light. He climbs the light rigging during Lily’s bridge in one song, he stands on the amplifiers conveniently in front of a particular smiling photographer, hair wild, shirt sweat-soaked, fingers dancing over frets, music, rhythm, lifeblood. Sirius plays the best he’s played in a long time, since the last time in Edinburgh, met with hazel-honey eyes. He lets everything bloom and come to fruition, lets himself _live_.

After the gig they go to the afterparty. It’s at the same club as last time, the same worn leather seats in the booth, Sirius throwing his same leather jacket over the table. He can’t just stride over to Remus and pull him onto the empty dance floor, wrap his arms around the other man’s waist and duck his head to kiss him. He can’t, because the room is dark but it’s full of all his friends, all of Remus’ friends, journalists, publicists. Sirius swallows acidic bile and orders a beer instead. Remus is on the other side of the room, standing next to the girl with purple hair. It’s too dark to see if he keeps glancing over to Sirius, but he’d be willing to bet his favourite guitar on it. He can _feel_ Remus’ gaze on him, prickling the back of his neck like the caress of a kiss, the soft summer breeze.

Fuck, Sirius takes a gulp of his drink when the bartender—not Dorcas this time—slides it over to him. It feels like lava in his stomach, gathering in the basin of his pelvis. He wants, wants, _wants_. He sits next to Regulus in the booth, feeling as if he’s circling Remus. He’s _trying_ not to look, not to watch him and admire the slight crookedness of his nose, his hair curling from the edges of the beanie. But he _can’t_. He’s drawn to him like a goddamn magnet, gravitational from somewhere behind his navel, forward, forward, forward.

All night it seems, they orbit each other, circling around. Sirius is wary of getting too close, wary of giving too much away, but Remus’ gravitational pull, that slight smile, the mess of curls, those eyes, is dragging him in. Every time Sirius thinks he’s had enough of this circling, Remus catches his eye and gives a minute shake of his head—he’s got to deal with coming out, too. Sirius can’t out him, so he tightens his fingers around the neck of his beer bottle and takes a swig.

Sirius doesn’t think on whether this pull is purely sexual, purely the threads of desire weaving into something terrifyingly sharp in his stomach, or whether it’s something else. Does he want to sweep Remus away into a hotel room and fuck him into the mattress? Or is it something else Sirius craves; does he want to sit next to Remus at the bar, put his arm around the other man’s shoulders, laugh at his stupid dry quips and look bewildered at the colloquialisms he still can’t fathom. He doesn’t think on it.

He ends up next to Remus at the bar—entirely by _accident_. Remus smiles and slides a glass of whisky over to him. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here,” he murmurs.

Sirius grins and leans his elbows on the bar, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass. The glass is half-empty and there’s the shape of Remus’ mouth on the rim. They’re sharing then. “Mhmm, what is a gorgeous thing like you doing in a bar like this?” It’s loud enough that no one can hear them, Sirius reminds himself as he slides the glass back over to Remus after taking a sip.

“Waiting for a guy like you, I reckon,” Remus retorts, fitting his fingers into the condensation marks where Sirius’ had sat a moment ago.

“Oh yeah?” Sirius grins, letting his gaze drift up and down Remus’ body. God, it’s been months, hasn’t it, of looking at pictures and grainy video calls. Here is Remus Lupin, in front of him, lips whisky-glistened.

“Fuck, yeah—” Remus’ voice is still like liquor a half-hour later, a warm burn down Sirius’ throat as they kiss like oxygen, tangled in awful hotel sheets. They’re still half-clothed, like teenagers it feels like, desperate for sensation, for _something_. The bass of the music Sirius had set playing thrums through them both, through the springs of the mattress and into Sirius as if he’s got hollow bones, rattling with life.

Sirius had left the bar first, saying he had a headache and wanted to rest. James had given him a strange look but let him go. Remus had finished his whisky and followed a few minutes later. They couldn’t leave together, could they? Sirius couldn’t tuck Remus under his shoulder and lead him back to the hotel to do what they’ve been dreaming for months, could he?

But now they’re here, tucked away in this haven of a hotel room. Sirius urges Remus closer, hands ranging over him, the back of his thighs, the line of his waist beneath another oversized shirt and skinny jeans. He curls his tongue into Remus’ mouth, tastes him, tastes the whisky of his voice, the sweetness and warmth, wants to swallow it down. Remus tangles their legs together, slides his thigh between Sirius’ to press against him and send handfuls of ice water cascading down Sirius’ spine, gathering in his sacral plexus to grow and form, rushing blood and pounding heart.

“Yeah?” Sirius mutters, scattering kisses over Remus’ jaw, to his ear where he breathes a plume of warmth over the skin. “Yeah, God, I missed you—missed this.”

“Missed this? We haven’t done it before.”

“ _Shit_ —ah, we have, over the phone. Thinking about you whilst I’m in some crappy hotel room.”

Remus hums and rolls his hips against Sirius’, his hands carding through Sirius’ hair with something akin to reverence. “I know, s’good. You’re here.”

Sirius doesn’t think about how he’ll have to leave tomorrow morning, with the dawn light kissing the skyline of this ancient city, with something fresh and ancient under his tongue. He stays here, full of want and desire, his skin alight, Remus leaving kisses over his collarbones.

“We’re here, babe,” Sirius says, groaning as he rakes his nails down Remus’ back, lifting his hips. “Fuck, you’re so hot. Been thinking about this since that first night.”

Remus answers with a roll of his own hips, sliding one hand down Sirius’ stomach. “Since I first saw you on stage. Fuck, you’re so sexy with your guitar. I wanted to fucking climb up there—shit.”

Sirius moans, his eyes flickering open to see Remus above him, his hair mussed, his cheeks pink, the slight crookedness of his teeth, that tiny overbite. God, Sirius wants to devour him whole, wants to stay here forever in this awful hotel room and shag for days. He fists a hand into Remus’ hair, scratching slightly over the scalp, feeling the softness of the curls catch on his calluses.

It’s true, what Sirius said, although he’s been known to elaborate the truth occasionally, because he has been thinking about this, has been letting Remus swirl around his consciousness like a moth to a flame. Remus is there in the morning when he wakes, in the middle of the day when he hears a snippet of obscure English punk on the radio or at some festival—Remus with that spike in his earlobe and his torn up band tee—in the evening, the early hours. Sirius lies awake with Regulus on the other side of the hotel room and thinks of lyrics, thinks of music, thinks of Remus here with him, the taste of his mouth.

Now, here, in Edinburgh on an uncharacteristically balmy October night, Remus is naked but for his underwear, between Sirius’ legs, his eyes bright with desire. Sirius has the taste of the other man’s mouth marred onto his, the taste of his skin mapped with freckled constellations. Sirius is a one-man mission through the starscapes of Remus’ skin, kissing and touching, desperate and longing.

They could do something more outrageous, Sirius is sure, to take advantage of them being in the same bloody room as each other. Especially with the amount of filthy texts and late night conversations they’ve shared. Instead, they stay like that, limbs tangled, with only enough room between them for each other’s hands.

Sirius thinks the noise Remus makes when he wraps a hand around his cock is the finest fucking guitar riff, and he’s staring up at this goddamn angel, those fingers Sirius had watched around around the grip of Remus’ camera—nails bitten to the quick, a faded moustache tattoo on the forefinger—around his own dick. The world spins and soars like light-speed. Sirius is starlight, nebulas, alive, glorious.

It’s easier than Sirius thinks it might have been. Perhaps they’re both so used to hearing those little noises of pleasure, to describing exactly what they’re doing, that it’s easy to transpose that into real life. Remus is stroking him with surety, his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes flickering between Sirius’ face and his cock. Sirius has one hand on Remus’ arse, to pull him closer, closer, closer still, and the other wrapped around his cock and it’s _just_ as perfect as all those lurid snaps, the halls of Sirius’ imagination. The room spins, it’s minutes, or hours.

“Holy _fuck_ , Remus—shit.” Sirius lifts his hips, hissing out a breath. “Faster, babe.”

“Yeah?”

Sirius watches for a handful of gasped breaths, his orgasm approaching on rapid drumbeats, Remus above him. He twists his wrist, delighting in wringing glorious little snatches of breath from bitten-pink lips. Remus clenches his eyes shut a moment later, dropping his chin to his chest. He swears something blue and lurid, in such a strong brogue that Sirius doesn’t catch a _word_ of it, before he’s spilling richly over Sirius’ stomach, moaning sharp.

“Christ alive, look at you, fucking _look at you_ ,” Sirius breathes, his eyes flickering down over Remus’ body. They’re wound together like this, after months of fantasising, of trying to touch from a distance, trying to feign some kind of closeness to abate the fierce, acidic hunger at the back of their throats for the other person, built only on a few hours meeting but Sirius has never given a flying _fuck_ about how he’s _meant_ to be.

Remus shudders in a breath, his eyes still closed, his hand still stroking Sirius, firm and quick, doing just what he likes. The way he looks there, just after his completion, with it trickling down Sirius’ stomach, warm and wet, with his hand around Sirius’ dick— _fuck_. That’s what pushes him over the edge, the fact that he has this in his memory now. He can file it away to remember on dingy nights so far from ones like this.

Sirius swears, sharp and spat as he throws his head back, hips bucking up towards Remus’ touch, coming and coming and coming. It seems to carry on forever, floating on the wings of ecstasy, the warm Zephyr breeze lifting him up to Avalon or Elysium. Remus’ fingers wrapped around him turn slick and hot, still stroking him with determination through the tremors of pleasure. Sirius takes a gasp as he’s returned back to this plane, to the physicality of this body, long legs parted for Remus to sit between them, one arm thrown above his head, the other with fingers still wrapped around Remus’ cock. Sirius leans up as soon as he’s able, snatching Remus’ mouth into a kiss. Remus returns it in earnest, the taste of his mouth the finest wine, the cheapest vodka, paint stripper and Cristal. Sirius stays there, nipping his bottom lip, feeling breath return to them both like an airlock, like the release of a vacuum back to reality. 

They lie there for some undetermined amount of time, neither of them wanting to break this spell, breathing into each other’s mouths, oxygen masks and ventilators. Sirius can just feel his toes as he’s sinking back into the bed, his lips sticking to Remus’ just a fraction. Remus grins, kisses him again for the barest whisper, before climbing from his lap.

A few moments later and Remus’ voice is floating over the stale air towards him, smoked syrup. “Hey, Sirius.” He opens his eyes, the edges of his vision still suffused with the blurry haze of satisfaction, to see Remus leaning—still naked, Christ—against the desk, his camera up to his eye. “Say cheese, beautiful.”

Sirius laughs, tilts his head, bends one leg. He doesn’t fucking care that Remus has a photograph of him naked now, covered in spunk, for Christ’s sake, because that look on Remus’ face as he looks at the preview screen says it’s only for him. It’s only for _them_.

“You better give me a cut if you get rich selling that to the trashy magazines,” Sirius purrs, sitting up to wrap an arm around Remus’ thighs and tug him back to bed.

“Nah.” Remus snorts a little laugh, setting his camera on the bed. “It’s for my eyes only. You’re fucking stunning. You could be a model—” Remus drops a line of kisses along his jaw and Sirius lets out a chuckle, warm and soft— “a fucking rockstar, a Greek statue, I swear.”

“Babe, I am a rockstar,” Sirius says around a laugh, properly spilling from his mouth. He tips his chin back and lets Remus pepper a path of kisses down his throat. Remus’ lips leave the firewood aftertaste of whisky wherever they trace and Sirius is burning up with it. Remus digs his fingers into Sirius’ knee, nudging his nose along sensitive skin, biting kisses, Sirius’ very breath between his teeth. He nestles closer, somewhere between that shy boy with the overbite and the mop of curls, that shredded-denim clad punk who can wax lyrical about the shortcomings of the current political landscape, and the man he’s had between his legs for a half hour, sure and talented, a tiny hint of being flustered just beneath his flushed skin. Sirius can’t figure him out, can’t put his finger on him. He’s all bundled up, layers and layers that Sirius is fucking delighting in peeling back.

Peel them back he does, as he pulls Remus back onto the bed again, into still sweat-damp sheets. They have only one night, and Sirius intends to get to know Remus as well as seven hours will allow.

When Remus is sleeping, some time later after they’d kissed until their lips were numb and cleaned up in giddy post-orgasmic stupor, Sirius tucks himself against the head of the bed, propping one knee up. He pulls his notebook from the bedside table and clicks his pen. He won’t sleep tonight, he knows, so he contents himself with the thing that restores his soul rather than his body. He dims the lights as far as they go so as to not wake the angel next to him, and writes. He pours the words from the tip of his tongue onto the page, scribbles his poorly drawn version of a musical stave between the lyrics, barely-there notations that only _Starsign_ can even go halfway to decipher.

Sirius dozes with Remus’ head in his lap, wakes up to the other man’s mouth in delightful sweet-hot heaven around him and a moan coming to bloom in his throat. That certainly wakes him up and he’s eager to return the favour, thinking he’ll remember the image of Remus’ lips wrapped around his cock, smiling with one side of his mouth. He’ll remember the absolutely _filthy_ moan Remus gave when Sirius pinned his hips to the bed and took him apart.

Leaving Remus sated and sprawled on the bed, Sirius showers and when he strides back into the bedroom Remus is sleeping again. It’s early still, barely light out, but Sirius has to get back on the road. He packs wordlessly, barely _un_ packed from his suitcase, but leaves a t-shirt on the bed. It’s his oldest Starsign shirt, the one he used to wear so that when people asked him, he could say _well, that’s my band_. It’s been a good luck charm over the years, but Sirius is content to leave it with Remus, meld them together so it’s the man that brings him luck.

“You’re leaving?” Remus’ voice is the angel’s share now, soft and sleep-warm. He’s still half asleep, one hand tucked under his pillow.

“Yeah,” Sirius breathes, sitting on the edge of the bed and carding gentle fingers through Remus’ hair. “We have to be on the road to get down to Manchester. You can stay though, sleep. The room’s all paid for… just don’t steal the TV on your way out, huh? Or Effy’ll have my head.”

Remus smiles, his eyes closing at Sirius’ touch. “Your manager?”

“Manager and pseudo-mother to us all—James’ actual mother.”

“Ha… I’ll sleep a little longer.” Remus turns and kisses Sirius’ palm. “You wore me out last night… and this morning.”

Sirius snickers, loathe to move his hand with the way Remus is pressed against it, but time is ticking on and he has to meet the rest of the band downstairs. “I would apologise, but I’m absolutely not sorry.”

Remus’ smile is a flash of canine teeth and a huff of breath on Sirius’ skin. “Of course you’re not.”

Their goodbye is awkward, unsure of what to say or do. Sirius insists Remus stay in bed to sleep some more and Remus grumbles as he snatches a last kiss from Sirius’ toothpaste-smudged mouth. “You better snap me some of these gigs,” he says, instead of _goodbye_ or _I’ll miss you_ or _don’t go_.

Sirius laughs, kisses him again. “You know I will.” _Goodbye, I’ll miss you, I don’t want to go._

Later, already in the van, with James taking his turn driving, Sirius’ phone buzzes in his pocket. The Snapchat is of Remus, wearing his old _Starsign_ shirt. It’s just as baggy as all those punk shirts he adores, and something fierce sprouts in Sirius’ chest. He coughs, presses his knuckles to his sternum and looks out at the countryside flooding past them, unsure if he can name this feeling, but he can _hear_ it. His fingers itch with a new riff, his throat bobs around the swallow of a new melody.

* * *

London, as sprawling and smog filled as it is, will always be home for Sirius, for all of _Starsign_. Sirius and Regulus had lived with their overbearing parents in Islington until they’d both ran away and turned up at James’ door. Mercifully, James’ parents owned, and still do, a townhouse in Notting Hill, and the Potter’s had invited the two Black boys into their home, seeing how happy James was to have them here, his best friend and his best friend’s brother.

They’d started a band almost immediately, sixteen and hopeful; Sirius and Regulus bastardising the classic guitar lessons they’d had as children, James _finally_ shaping the percussion and drumming he’d plagued his parents with for years into something with purpose. They played in people’s backyards, at birthday parties, but _something_ was missing.

Lily Evans turned up to one of those birthday parties, a Friday night in Hackney. It was for a friend of a friend of a friend, and she was there with her combat boots, her plaid dress, her scowl. She’d stomped right up to James and said, in the thickest Cockney accent Sirius had ever heard, “You’re crap. You need a bassist.”

James, of course, had fallen over his tongue to agree. Sirius was sure he’d ask her out in the next breath. Sirius and Regulus had taken over then, and Lily had swept in like a whirlwind. She had a plan, connections, the amazing work ethic. _Starsign_ had _soared_ , and the rest was history.

Being back in London is always wonderful. It seems like every time they come back, _Starsign_ have risen even higher. The band are at the _Prophet_ offices, the top of a high rise with the sunlight flooding through the windows. Effy has booked a string of interviews for them, with various magazines, and this pile of _trash_ is the last of the day. The journalist is a little… _grating_ , but Sirius has the sun on his face and his bandmates on the sofa next to him, so it’s okay. The publicity will only help the European tour they’re about to embark on, so Effy says.

Of course, the journalist has been asking some deeply personal questions—grilling Lily and James about whether they will _eventually_ tie the knot, or whether the steamy lyrics of _Sparks_ are about anyone in particular—and it’s frustrating Sirius slightly more than usual. After all of their hard work, all the heart and soul, blood, sweat and tears they put into their music, this woman with incredibly coiffed hair and garish glasses is more interested in sordid details than their very purpose as people.

“What about you Sirius?” She asks, her fuchsia tinted lips stretching into a smile. “You’ve been awfully quiet through all this, and we all know you happen to be the most eligible bachelor in music right now. Anyone special in your life? Those _Sparks_ lyrics your doing?”

Sirius swallows, hiding a roll of his eyes. Of course there is _someone_ ; there is Remus Lupin. But they’ve agreed, time and time again, to keep it secret. The band’s publicity is important right now, and Remus has a reputation to uphold, and a job to do in Scotland. Being reduced to _Sirius Black’s boyfriend_ is nowhere near what he deserves. Sirius can’t deny there’s a coil of acidity in his stomach whenever they talk of it, because he _wants_ to shout about how he feels. He wants to say _look, look at him_ , and gesture to Remus because _God_ , he’s so gorgeous, but he can’t.

They’ve said they’re going to keep it secret, and Sirius is used to lying. To the public, to fans, he’s a straight man who just hasn’t found the right girl yet. In reality, he’s a bisexual man who has a gorgeous man waiting for him in Scotland. He wants to take Remus on tour with them, hire him as their photographer, just so he has someone at night, in the hotels, someone next to him, to hold, kiss, adore. But not even the band know. So he can lie.

“Ah no, no one special for me. I’m married to my guitar, we all know that,” Sirius says, a wry smirk on his lips to hide the sour twist in his throat.

“Ah of course, the envy of many,” the journalist coos, and Sirius sits back in his seat, looking out to the sunset.

The article goes live on _Prophet_ ’s website the next morning, and Sirius wakes to a slurry of notifications. Most, he can swipe away as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. The one from _MoonySnaps_ , though, he clicks on quickly. In his half-asleep state, Sirius doesn’t quite remember the contents of the interview, so he frowns when he sees the screenshot Remus has sent him. The phrase _Eligible musical bachelor Sirius Black confirms there’s no one special in his life_ is circled in red, along with a scrawled question mark. That’s it.

His stomach plummeting, Sirius swipes open the chat and taps out a hurried message. _We said we’d keep it secret. If I’d have said yes, she would’ve pestered._

_Right, aye_ is Remus’ only response.

Sirius hits the call button and presses the phone to his ear. It rings for long enough that Sirius can stand up, pull open the curtains of his bedroom. He’s back home for just a short while, and usually he relishes the plush carpet beneath his feet and the familiar mattress, but today he’s riddled with guilt as he looks out across the London skyline.

“Aye?” Remus answers. Sirius can’t tell if his voice is rough from the early morning or if he’s been shouting or crying or spilling over with something vitriolic.

“If I’d have said there was someone special, she’d have been like a dog with a bone,” Sirius says, forgoing greetings or anything so trivial.

“I ken.”

“You know you’re...” Well, shit. What are they? They’ve never talked about this. They’ve never discussed what these mid-night phone calls and the after-effects of each other’s moans sticking around for much longer than they should. How can they when all they’ve had in person is a drink or two and a snatched kiss—more teeth and breath than anything else—behind a trailer? _You know you’re—_ what? Special to me? That special someone? You know that means I’m off the market? Sirius clears his throat and leans against the windowsill. He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

The line is silent for a beat, two, three. But instead of their usual comfortable silence, filled with pants and the glorious heady afterglow of an orgasm, it’s awkward. The silence stretches out and Sirius drums his fingers on the sill.

Remus must take that silence for _something_ , because he huffs a quiet laugh. “Aye right, I’m that, huh?”

“Oh come on. We both agreed to keep this on the down-low. You’re busy, you have things to do that don’t include being hounded by reporters or Instagram followers for shagging me.”

There’s a draw of breath on the line and Sirius is sure it’s Remus having his morning cigarette. Sirius is trying to cut down but the sound of that first inhale makes his fingers itch. “And you have a reputation to uphold, eh? Mr. Straight Eligible Bachelor.” His voice is wry and dry and sharp like the cheapest vodka and it _hurts._

Sirius can only respond to that hurt with hurt of his own. “Yeah, I do, Remus. And don’t pretend you don’t have a reputation either. Maybe you’re _all that_ in Scotland but I’m not going to bend over backwards to please Remus fucking Lupin. We fucking _agreed_ , like adults, not to tell anyone, and now you get to throw your toys out the pram because I told some trashy reporter I wasn’t seeing anyone just to get her to shut up?”

Remus takes a drag, but doesn’t say anything else. Sirius continues like he’s released a juggernaut of feelings to barrel out of his mouth and thunder through his chest. He can’t stop talking, because his stomach is roiling and he wants to finish that sentence— _you know you’re..._

“That’s rich, honestly. Just because I don’t tell any damn reporters, to save _you_ the hassle of a million DMs and questions, you’re allowed to be mad. But those nights you don’t pick up the phone? I see you on Snapchat out in the city centre with who-the-fuck-knows? I can’t be mad about that, huh? I can’t be mad it’s them and not me! It’s some nameless, faceless little shit who’s in your bed?”

“Are you saying I sleep around?”

“I dunno, am I?”

“Fuck you, Sirius.”

“You’re not denying it!” Sirius throws a hand up, paces away from the early morning view.

“I don’t fuckin’ have to! I don’t sleep around. I have a life and friends and a social circle that doesn’t revolve around my poncy damn band. Unlike you I have to work my fucking arse off in the week and if I wanna go out and drink on Friday or Saturday then I fucking can. I’m not just here for you to wank to whenever you get lonely in some hotel room.” Remus takes a breath and there’s the snapping shut of a window. “And so fucking what if I _do_ sleep around? I fucking can if I like. We’re not _exclusive,_ are we? You said yourself. We’re not _anything._ So that’s rich, the famous musician, Mr. Eligible, calling me easy when you’ve probably got a hundred nudes in your inbox. Funny, I didn’t peg a big shot like you as a slut shamer.”

Sirius grits his teeth, hearing his phone case shift and nearly crack beneath his tight grip. “Oh, fuck you. You don’t know. You have no fucking clue. Sleep with whoever the fuck you like, see if I care! See if I fucking care. I couldn’t care who you fuck or what the hell you do up in fucking Scotland. You know what, you can sell that photo of me if you like, any of the ones you’ve got screenshot. I don’t give a fuck, sell them off and you can retire from your shitty freelance job and move up to the fucking mountains and _shag who the fuck you like._ Fuck you, Remus.”

With a snarl of frustration Sirius throws his phone at the wall. The case snaps and falls off, clattering down next to the phone, screen smashed. Sirius stares for a moment, his chest rising and falling. _Shit_ , he hadn’t meant to do that, any of it.

“What the fuck, Sirius?” Regulus’ voice comes from the doorway, one hand on the handle to hold it open. “You alright?”

Sirius groans, raking his hands through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Fucking—shit, just broke my phone. Again.”

“Again? Shit, I’ll order you a new one... helluva lot cheaper than a new Fujigen, huh?” Regulus pads over and sits on the edge of the bed, tugging Sirius down next to him.

“True,” Sirius grumbles, slumping a little.

“Some troll on Twitter again?” Regulus offers, though it’s too light, and Sirius knows Regulus knows that’s not what it is. Sirius doesn’t get that angry when it’s no one who matters. Sirius just raises an imperious eyebrow at him. “Didn’t think so.” Regulus picks at the callus on his middle finger. “Is it whoever you’ve been talking to, and smiling at your phone at?”

Sirius’ gaze snaps to his brother. “What are you—”

Regulus smiles again and Sirius sees how similar they look, how their mouths crook at the same corner and their grey eyes twinkle the same. “We all know you’ve been talking to someone, lots of Snaps, smiling at your phone, slinking off for calls.”

“Yeah, could be.” That’s all Sirius can admit as he rubs a hand over his face.

“Listen. You know I’m shit at advice. Can’t hold a relationship to save my life, and have no desire to. I do know my brother, though. If you’re hurting, I’d wager it’s someone you care about? You don’t give a shit about anyone, except the people you let in.”

Sirius flops back with his hands over his face. He’s right, of course. Regulus knows him.

“You let her in?” His brother’s voice is painfully soft and Sirius’ stomach twists.

“Him.”

There’s a beat. Sirius’ heart is trilling in his ribcage, thumping around like a bird desperate to get free. He can’t bring himself to remove his hands from his face.

“Him, then,” Regulus corrects, like it’s no big deal, like Sirius hasn’t just come out to him.

“Think I...” Sirius’ voice wavers. It’s from shouting, he tells himself, not tremulous with emotion and acceptance. “Think I did, yeah.”

Regulus is silent for a little longer. “At least you’ll get a good song out of it, maybe even an album, depending on how it ends.”

Sirius tears his hands away from his face to give Regulus a completely offended, incredulous look. Regulus is grinning inanely, barely holding back laughter. He’s teasing of course, because he’s still Sirius’ brother. They’d had a rough patch around the time they ran away from home but they have been thick as thieves ever since. That hasn’t changed.

“You fucking dick,” Sirius groans, punching him on the arm.

Effy is furious, when he and Regulus turn up at the Potter’s townhouse, where Lily and James are staying so they can save up for a house in Shoreditch they’ve fallen in love with. Sirius mutters something about breaking his phone, and she claps him around the ear and huffs something similar to Regulus about it being cheaper than a new guitar.

He uses Regulus’ phone to order another for himself, as well as make another claim on his insurance, trying not to think about how regularly this kind of thing happens. It’ll be at their flat tomorrow afternoon, thankfully, because Sirius can’t stop thinking about how Remus could be up in Scotland, looking at his phone, sending Sirius texts, snaps, voicemails, and getting nothing in reply.

Or maybe Remus has blocked him, deleted his number, thrown it away because Sirius had told him to fuck whoever he likes and accused him of sleeping around. Sirius scrubs a hand over his face and tucks into the plate of daal and roti Effy sets in front of him.

Later, with the sun setting, the band are at the bottom of the garden, the brick walls high on either side to stop the sound from carrying. The fire-pit is between them all and Sirius watches the flames dance as he plucks a melody on the acoustic guitar in his lap. James is next to him, slapping a rhythm on the chair and his knees, Regulus opposite him on another acoustic. Lily has her feet in Regulus’ lap—she’d had them in James’ but he’d used her shins as a snare drum—as she lies back, singing softly as she thumbs idly at the strings on the electro-acoustic bass Sirius had teased her for months about buying. But it’s perfect for these balmy nights in the garden. They have been sitting here for years, jamming together, just playing and existing with their music. They’ve been a band long enough for them all to fit together like a perfectly ragged jigsaw.

Sirius doesn’t think of Remus, as he plays. That’s what he tells himself, leaning against James’ side and strumming away, singing along with Lily, harmonising, just _existing_. He doesn’t think of Remus.

The sun is well and truly set, the night in full swing, when they set down their instruments and call it for the night. Sirius is well passed the stage of having split and bleeding fingers from playing too much—they’re all callus now, moulded to the strings, made for music—but he remembers when he would play until the strings were bloody, sat in this garden with his three best friends.

They sprawl on the grass together and look up at the sky. It’s too bright in London, with the metropolis spilling light out into the vastness of space, but they can _pretend_ to stargaze. Sirius is almost dozing when James’ voice rouses him just a little.

“Hey look, a shooting star,” he breathes, his voice soft.

“S’a meteor, or a comet, technically,” Regulus retorts, drowsy.

“Pedant.”

“Pretty cool though, huh?” Lily props herself onto one elbow, looking up at the sky.

_Yeah_ , Sirius finds himself thinking. He finds himself closing his eyes and imagining that, soaring, burning, flying.

_I wish I was a comet, burning up into the night._

* * *

Sirius’ new phone arrives offensively early the next morning. He doesn’t open it until he’s drank at least one cup of coffee and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Admittedly, his night away from technology, with his bandmates and best friends, had been good for him, good for his soul, his creativity. But he’s itching to log back into everything. He’s itching to see if there’s anything from Remus.

Set up takes forever, during which Sirius drinks another cup of coffee, and Regulus appears, in his pyjamas too, his hair messy just like his brother’s. They cook eggs whilst the phone is still bloody updating, and thankfully Regulus doesn’t comment on how antsy Sirius is. He doesn’t comment on the fact that Sirius came out to him yesterday, which Sirius is distinctly grateful for. He knows he has to have that conversation with the band, but he’s not equipped for it today.

When he does finally set up the new phone—logging into everything always takes so long—it’s over the crumbs of scrambled eggs on toast hours later, and Regulus has gone to take a shower.

There’s nothing on Twitter—that’s okay, they don’t usually talk there—or Instagram—ditto—but he refreshes Snapchat a handful of times, just to make sure. Not even a story post from him, and he usually updates it regularly. Sirius drums his fingers on the table as he lingers over _MoonySnaps_. What should he do? Are they just going to be orbiting each other forever, now? Neither of them knowing how to reach out over the vastness of space between them, neither willing to take a chance to burn?

With a fortifying breath, Sirius snaps a picture out of the window of the flat. It’s beautifully sunny and the London skyline will never get boring for him. _Beautiful Camden morning. Always glad to be back home._

That’s vague enough, isn’t it? Sirius sends it to Remus though, just him. Nothing specific reaching out and saying _I’m sorry for the things I said when I was angry. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I miss you, and I want you here and I want the taste of your mouth and I want to acknowledge it all. I’m hiding it all and I’m getting tired._

Sirius loads the dishwasher so he doesn’t stare at his phone. He puts on _London Calling_ , humming along as he paces back and forth. He’s missed the mundanity of housework, of real life and not tours or recording or interviews, so he’s happy to do it. He checks his phone once the kitchen is clean, sitting gratefully at the table.

There’s a reply from Remus. When he taps on it it’s a beautiful scene, the landscape of a Scottish loch with the sun in the sky. _And here we see the rarest of beasts—the Scottish sun._

_Never seen one of them before_ , Sirius writes back, swiping right to _chat_ as he lets out a chuckle. There’s Remus’ dry wit and stupid humour. He’s missed it these past twenty-four hours.

_I’ve heard tales of it. We’re all getting sunburnt and swimming in the loch like idiots._

_Sounds good._ Sirius takes a moment to drain the last of his coffee cup like some sort of encouragement. _Video call later? When you’re back. I’m at home today._

Remus’ reply is accompanied by a selfie. He’s distracted, glancing off to the side, with a smile on his face and his tiny overbite is never more obvious. It makes Sirius’ insides thrum. _Aye alright_ , Remus says. Something unlocks in Sirius, then. He knows they were both at fault for arguing, knows they both said things they regret—at least he hopes—and that he’s not solely responsible for apologising, but he wants to apologise to Remus.

“Right,” Sirius breathes as he pushes his chair back to stand. When he blinks he sees the shooting star—the _comet_ —from last night in Notting Hill, with the melody brewing behind his teeth. He has to write. He knows he needs to do other things today, but for now he writes.

_I wish I was a comet, burning up into the night. I wish I was a comet, but I’m just a satellite._

_I don’t like the limelight, so we don’t hold hands in daylight._

Sirius is still writing when his phone rings later that evening. His fingers are ink-stained and his oldest guitar is in his lap, though it nearly falls out as he clamours for the phone, not recognising the new case for a moment.

“Hey,” he says, setting the phone on the arm of the sofa as he answers, waiting a moment for the video to kick in.

Remus’ hair is salt-curled and untamed, and his freckles are deep across the bridge of his nose, along with the pink tinge of sunburn. He smiles a little when he sees Sirius’ image on the screen. “Didn’t disturb you, aye?”

Sirius shakes his head, manoeuvring his guitar out of the way. “Nah, I’m writing. Lost track of time.” Right on cue, his stomach grumbles, but he’ll eat later.

“Aye, you’ve got ink on your chin, hen.” Remus sets his chin on his palm, chuckling.

“Oh shit, fuck.” Sirius throws his notebook down and wipes the back of his hand over the offending area. “Being a fucking leftie, dammit.”

“S’cute. Makes you look dead studious,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting.

Sirius laughs, rolling his eyes. He stashes his notebook down the side of the sofa—bizarrely paranoid about these lyrics, about the pieces of himself he’s stringing out into words and notes—and leans against the arm. It’s like he can feel Remus pulling him in, leaning closer, wanting to climb right through his screen into that dingy Scottish bedroom. “Pft, I don’t think so.”

Remus just chuckles. Silence drifts between them for just a moment.

“I’m sorry abou—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Both of them break off into laughter and Sirius looks down at his lap, shaking his head. He can’t help the smile curling his lips, the warmth swirling in his stomach. Shit. He can feel the moment of concern flicker over his face before he tamps the expression down, forcing back to neutral. He raises an eyebrow, looking back to Remus on the screen.

“I’ll go first then, aye?” Remus mutters, dry and teasing. Sirius just nods; he’s thinking about lyrics, about the feeling of guitar strings beneath his fingers. “Er—well, I _am_ sorry I called you a slut shamer, even though it was sort of accurate, but I’m not sorry about saying it feels like I’m just here for you to wank to, sometimes.” He looks almost bashful, his eyes flickering over the screen and Sirius just wishes he was _here_ , in front of him, on this sofa.

“I… that’s not the case, Remus. I don’t think you’re just here for me to wank to. I wish… we had more time to hang out with each other when it’s not 3am and we’re horny… and I’m sorry I accused you of sleeping around, and called you easy. I just… I’m frustrated that I’m not… well, you know. Jesus—” Sirius breaks off and rubs a hand over his face— “I’m not making any sense. And I sound like some privileged twat saying I’m sad I get to tour the world and do my dream job.”

Remus snorts a laugh and tilts his head from side to side, as if to say _hmm, sort of_ , but he’s smiling. “I’m frustrated you’re doing your dream job too,” he murmurs, his voice soft and something like vulnerability in his honeyed eyes.

That’s as close as they get to saying _I wish you were here, I miss you. You know you’re—_

* * *

Nervousness is not something Sirius experiences often. In fact, it seems to be centred entirely around Remus Lupin, because up until he’d locked eyes with the man across the room, nerves weren’t a thing he’d ever have to worry about.

He’s never felt nerves like this, though. Sirius sits in the living room of his flat, one knee bouncing incessantly. Regulus is sat next to him, having just put a record on the vinyl player in the corner. James and Lily will be here any moment and Sirius thinks he might just vomit. It shouldn’t be a big deal, telling two of his oldest friends what they likely know already; saying the words will be different though.

“It’ll be alright, you know.” Regulus doesn’t look up from his phone. “James and Lily love you like nothing else.”

“I know,” Sirius says, turning his phone around and around in his hands. He hasn’t told Remus he’s coming out to his bandmates, partly because it’s all beginning to form together into a plan in Sirius’ head, and he wants the surprise to be perfect. Remus’ latest message is still unread but Sirius can’t concentrate well enough to pretend he’s not nearly jittering out of his skin.

The doorbell rings just as Sirius is studying the ragged skin around his thumbnail and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He hops up before Regulus can and is at the door to pull it open. James is grinning on the other side of it, but his face falls just a little when he sees Sirius; of course James can read him like a goddamn book.

“What’s wrong?” is the first thing James says as he steps in and shucks off his aviator jacket. Lily is right behind him, her leather jacket already slung over her arm.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ , James.” Sirius rolls his eyes, hiding the nerves well, he thinks, as he starts back into the living room.

“You’ve summoned us here and sent exactly _no_ Instagram posts of puppies in the last 12 hours, that’s wrong to me.” Lily peers around her boyfriend’s shoulder, her pencilled eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, well…” Sirius sighs, scrapes a hand through his hair. “I have something to tell you, is all.”

“Yeah?” James turns back to him as he sits on the sofa opposite Regulus, after greeting him with a quick hug. Lily kisses Regulus on the forehead like the sister she is to the Black brothers before sitting next to James. She looks concerned, and she’s biting her lip.

“I’m… Jesus, here goes nothing. I’m bisexual.”

James looks as if he’s trying not to _laugh_ , and Sirius nearly throws his brand new fucking phone right into his face, but then he looks to Lily, and back to Sirius with the softest expression. “You were worried about telling us?”

Sirius nods, mute and almost ashamed in his lack of belief in them.

“Silly boy,” Lily says fondly, leaning forward to put her hand on his knee.

James smiles and continues, peering at Sirius incredibly earnestly. “You had no need to be, you know? We will always accept you, Sirius, whoever you are… In fact, you’re still you? Nothing has changed… except maybe that you can be more free and honest with us. You’re still you, and I support you.”

“ _We_ support you,” Lily amends.

Sirius nods again, feeling something unlock and untwist in his chest. Of _course_ they would always accept and support him. Of course he had nothing to worry about. Now, like the knots have been loosened, he wants to spill everything; he wants James and Lily, and Regulus too, to know everything about Remus, and everything that Sirius has been working on.

Lily bites her lip again, looking more impish now, and squeezes her hand on Sirius’ knee. “Besides… we kind of knew already, didn’t we?”

Sirius scoffs and flops back onto the sofa, putting his hands over his face. “Oh shut up. How?”

James and Regulus laugh and Sirius can’t help but chuckle too, his cheeks bright red. God, he’s an idiot. “You’re not as subtle as you think,” James says through a laugh. “I’ve known you for over fifteen years, I can tell when you’re flirting, and when it’s pretty damn obvious it’s at some bartender with a top knot and an intimidating beard.”

Lily shrieks. “Oh that’s so accurate! That’s your type!”

Sirius glares, in between the struts of his fingers, to see them all laughing. “Actually, not that accurate,” he says snidely, smiling.

“Oh?” James looks between them all. Regulus stays mercifully quiet, because he _knows_ there’s someone.

“Yeah. I’ve been talking to a guy.” Sirius sits up properly then, looks between his three best friends, then down to the cigarette packet on the arm. He takes one out then tosses it to James before he lights up. Neither James or Lily say anything, maybe giving Sirius the floor, so he continues. “He’s, ah—a gig photographer.”

“Met on the job!” Lily coos, chuckling as she steals a drag of James’ cigarette.

Sirius flips her off. “You’re vile. We’ve been talking for… for months. God, close to a year maybe? And I… well, I’ve written something. I want to play it next time we’re… Scotland. He’s in Scotland.”

“Oh _that’s_ who it is.” Regulus turns to him with a smile. “That photographer with the oversized shirt and the overbite, right?”

_Fuck._ “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Oh _cute_ ,” Lily agrees, just as James nods like an approving father.

“Good music taste.”

That’s it then, Sirius thinks, with a breath of relief around another lungful of cigarette smoke. It’s all okay. Regulus gets up to put the kettle on after a few moments, and Sirius sits back in his seat, looking across at his oldest friends. It’s a glorious feeling, his heart fluttering with acceptance in his ribcage. He wants to tame it and turn it into something beautiful.

After another cigarette, and half a cup of tea, Sirius retrieves his guitar and the notebook full of lyrics he’s guarded savagely in the past few days. His nervousness has all but dissolved when he clears his throat and sets his fingers to the strings of his guitar. This song is not something he needs to be nervous about, not now.

_And we orbit fast, but I wish we could collide. I’m sick of concealing, I’m sick of the feeling, I no longer want to hide._

Lily has tears strung along her lower lashes when Sirius looks up from his guitar again, and James is looking at him as if he’s just explained the whole damn world. Regulus shifts next to him, nodding. His voice is uncharacteristically soft when he speaks. “We’ll play it,” he says, and that’s all Sirius needs.

“I can hear the harmonies,” Lily says, almost as if she’s awestruck. Lily has a gift for music, Sirius knows. She can inhabit it like no one else he knows, hears a refrain or a riff and can immediately expand it into something symphonic and gorgeous.

“I can feel the fucking—Christ, Sirius.” James pushes his glasses up onto his head so he can rub his eyes. “This is how you feel? It _feels_ important, and sincere, and… you shouldn’t have to hide. I don’t want you to hide and I’ll fight anyone who does. Whatever you need, however you want this to work, this is your song—your song to him, what’s his fucking name?—your song, and we’ll do whatever you need.”

Sirius nods, trying not to be overwhelmed by the relief and acceptance. “Yeah… Remus, that’s his name, it’s Remus.”

* * *

Six weeks, Sirius had said on the phone to Remus that night. The other man had fallen asleep and Sirius had only let himself look for just a moment before he hung up. Six weeks. It feels like forever. It feels as if Sirius has been touring for years now, the world their van, hotels, practice, soundchecks. But then, the world is gigs, too. The world, Sirius’ world, is bright and musical—fans cheering and screaming, singing along to lyrics Sirius and Lily have poured themselves into over the past six years. It’s exhilarating. It’s all Sirius needed in life. He wants Remus here, really he does, but he’s never going to be able to kid himself that music isn’t his passion.

That’s why he’s writing Remus a song, isn’t it? Well, _written_. In the evenings when they aren’t playing in halls and what Sirius can only really term _stadiums_ , they sit in a hotel room in a circle and play Sirius’ song— _Remus’_ song.

Lily sits up near the headboard, one knee bent. James is at the hotel desk, using a combination of the wooden tabletop and his knees as his kit. Regulus is cross-legged at the foot of the bed, guitar cradled in his lap like an infant. Sirius sits next to Lily so he can hear her harmonies in his right ear, tilts his head just slightly in her direction. The song sounds _better_ between the four of them than it did in Sirius’ head, and he can’t wait to play it in Edinburgh.

That morning, they drive up the motorway, endless swathes of concrete and people who _cannot_ drive properly, making Lily swear out of the window—she always goes back to her Cockney accent when she’s angry—and Regulus, who is terrifyingly chill, nearly lose his temper. When Sirius isn’t driving he’s snapping Remus pictures of the passing countryside.

_Can’t wait to see you_ , one caption says.

_Aye, me too_. Remus sends him a selfie back, chin propped on his palm. The light of his computer screen is reflected in his eyes, along with some unbearable sweetness, affection, adoration— _you know you’re_ —that makes Sirius’ stomach twist. He wants to tell Remus. He wants to send him the recording on his phone they’ve thrown together. He wants to say _this is for you, this is yours_. But he can’t ruin the surprise. He can just see Remus’ face in that liminal space between the crowd and the stage, looking up at him.

“You excited?” Lily asks, leaning her head against the pillar of the door and looking at Sirius.

“Yeah… terrified? But… you know, excited. I get to be honest. I get to tell him how I feel.” Sirius rubs a hand through his hair. It’s a strange thing to adjust to—being able to talk like this, not worrying about pronouns or if someone heard, or saw his snaps. Terrified too, of course, because now he’s _queer_ and the internet and the real world are going to _know_.

“Yeah. You don’t need to hide, Sirius. We have you.”

Sirius nods, feeling his heart bloom. How had he ever doubted them?

Edinburgh is grey and dreary when they pull into the parking garage near the venue. The rain is so hard it’s almost bouncing off the tarmac and Sirius pushes the sunglasses he needed to fish out somewhere near Hertfordshire up onto his head, useless now.

_This editing is killing me_ , Remus’ last snap says, caught mid eye-roll. _I’ll be there just before the gig starts, I have to finish this._

_Okay, see you then babe_.

Sirius throws his phone back into his pocket and hustles after his bandmates. After they drop off their equipment, he and James huddle for a cigarette in the stoop of the fire escape, getting drenched anyway. They have just enough time between arriving and sound check to breathe like this, stood close to preserve body heat. Remus would say it’s _driech_ —pouring, storming, horrific—and Sirius would likely try to copy his accent with little success, making him throw his head back in riotous laughter whilst Sirius flips off his phone camera in lieu of rolling his eyes and hitting Remus on the arm.

Bizarrely enough, Sirius isn’t nervous when they’re at sound check. This city feels like a certain kind of home, like a warm blanket around his shoulders or a shot of whisky in the cool night. He’s passed caring what others think of him, really. If it weren’t for surprising Remus, they would’ve released his song as a single already, in a big _fuck you_ to every bigoted, homophobic person who liked their music.

It’s Remus, too, though. It’s the fact it’s _Remus_ he gets to shout about. Taking that terrifying leap is infinitely less heinous when it’s Remus who catches him, when it’s Remus who is proud, when it’s Remus who is _his_. The other photographers appear towards the end of soundcheck, and Sirius recognises the purple haired girl but the man himself is nowhere to be seen. He said he’d be late. Sirius isn’t worried, he trusts him, trusts that Remus will be here with his crooked smile and another oversized bloody shirt.

Sound check finishes and in the green room Regulus scrawls the final setlist on the back of a flyer, once for each of them. The song _Satellites_ makes Sirius’ heart hammer, his fingers itch. He feels like an electric current is running through him, earthing him down and setting him alight. He wants it over with and to last forever somehow.

The moments before a gig are always the most weightless for Sirius. He’s at the peak of his parabola, the split-second before the plummet of a rollercoaster. He can’t breathe, in the best way possible. They open with the first song from their second album, arguably the one that really skyrocketed them. _Halcyon Days_ is a song that makes Sirius feel like the sun itself. He needs nothing but this, the memories it brings with it.

When he glances to the edge of the stage after the opening few bars, there’s Remus. His camera is in his hand, his eyes averted downwards to the screen, and _God_ , he looks gorgeous. He looks up to take another photograph and their eyes connect. It’s like the first time all over again and Sirius’ body thrums, his bones hollow and rattling like rain-sticks. Remus grins, brings his camera up to his eye and snaps away.

Sirius _knows_ he’s performing for Remus. But he’s a performer. On stage Sirius has no qualms about being dramatic, about being the biggest showman he can. Most of the time people are surprised how reserved Sirius is in public. Amongst his friends he can be himself, but whenever he’s Sirius, guitarist for _Starsign_ , he’s never truly Sirius Black, not quite. His stage persona is a coat he can shrug on with little effort. So Sirius clambers onto the amplifiers, steps up onto the platform with James’ drumkit and plays the solo for _Heartbreak Milkshake_ —a real old classic—with one foot on James’ bass drum.

Their usual routine on stage is that Lily talks to the crowd. She’s the alluring one, the one with quips and wit and a winning smile. Sirius just interjects with sarcastic comments or riffs along to Lily’s chatter. But when the lights come up after _Live Wire,_ it’s Sirius who steps up to his microphone.

“Alright you lot—” he pauses to account for the cheer that blooms amongst the crowd— “are lucky buggers tonight. We’re going to play a song we haven’t played _anywhere_ else yet, it’s called Satellites. Just for you, Edinburgh.” That’s not in though, is it?

_Just for you_ , Sirius hopes he says, when he glances down to the media pit and sees Remus looking up at him, camera down by his side. The crowd is _roaring_ , beyond excitement for the prospect of something exclusive, something for them. _Just for you, Remus._

_Satellites_ is the last song of the night, because Sirius isn’t sure if he can stomach looking down at Remus after singing what he’s about to sing for much longer. Sirius meets his gaze and gives him a brief smile. Remus has no clue, just ready to do his job, listening to an exclusive new single. With a deep inhale, Sirius lets his eyes close. He steps up to the microphone, thumbing over the strings of his guitar in a light melody that Regulus harmonises.

“ _I wish I was a comet, burning up in to the night. I wish I was a comet, but I’m just a satellite.”_

The song kicks in around him, Lily’s backing vocals and a building kind of crescendo. It feels like he does when he looks at Remus, late at night through the blue hue of his phone screen.

“ _I don’t like the limelight, so we don’t hold hands in daylight. I still drag the closet, oh my limbs they ache inside.”_ Sirius breathes deep in the brief pause. There it is. The closet he’s dragged with him for years, no longer. “ _And surely, all my family and my friends, my god and my ends, they cannot all be wrong. So I play along_.”

Usually, Sirius is interacting with the crowd when they play. Even if he has the lead vocals, he’s much more playful, singing back and forth, but this song? It’s all about the music, the feeling, the meaning. He looks somewhere towards the back of the room, letting the music assail him in the best way.

_“We refrain from touch, we are satellites.”_ Lily chimes in with a perfect _na-na-na-na_ , their voices twinning together. “ _In a cosmic dance amongst the Northern lights.” Na-na-na-na-na. “And we orbit fast, but I wish we could collide. I’m sick of concealing, I’m sick of the feeling. I no longer want to hide.”_

Another breath, this is it. Sirius’ gaze finds Remus at the front, easily. He has his camera in one hand, looking up at Sirius, _awestruck_. He’s right in front of Sirius’ microphone, standing like it’s just the two of them here. His eyes are wide and he looks almost confused.

“‘ _Cause I think it could be love. But I can’t show you enough. I wanna burn through the atmosphere, soar like a meteor tonight. Because I think it could be love, but I can’t show you enough. I wanna burn through the atmosphere, soar like a meteor tonight._ ”

Sirius holds his gaze, singing, willing his voice not to break. James leads them with a thrumming drum beat, just like the insistent marching of his own support. Lily perfectly harmonises his every word, and Regulus is a constant like always, chords leading his melodies, a framework for him to soar.

Remus’ mouth is hanging open, just a little. He hasn’t moved at all, and Sirius is just stood at his microphone, playing, singing, soaring.

“ _The gravity between us,_ ” Sirius continues, low and soft but powerful. The corner of his mouth crooks upwards to smile at Remus. _Their_ gravity, pulling them both in over so much distance. Remus gives a little laugh that Sirius sees, wishes he could hear. “ _Someone bring me down to land, and write a prayer to Venus. What is life without affection?”_

_“We refrain from touch, we are satellites, in a cosmic dance amongst the Northern lights. And we orbit fast, but I wish we could collide. I’m sick of concealing, I’m sick of the feeling. I no longer want to hide._ ‘ _Cause I think it could be love. But I can’t show you enough. I wanna burn through the atmosphere, soar like a meteor tonight. Because I think it could be love, but I can’t show you enough. I wanna burn through the atmosphere, soar like a meteor tonight._ ”

The chorus again, and Sirius dances a little more now, moving with the music so it can flow through him instead of blood, stand him up instead of bones. He’s not flesh and blood, he’s chords, melodies, harmonies, _love_.

The bridge comes all at once, a pause in the bright chords and rhythm. James gives the lightest drum rolls, like a marching band, a protest for them all. “ _Now online they discuss whether I exist, and in the court they decide who I can kiss… Now online they discuss whether I exist, and in the court they decide who I can kiss._ ”

The crowd— _fuck_ , Sirius had almost forgotten they were there, somewhere between this song like lifeblood and Remus staring up at him—gives a roaring cheer at that. It’s a big thing, a band this respected and well-known, influential in much of the industry being so openly supportive of LGBT issues. Sirius knows people can _say_ they’re allies, but they’re not. Well, _Starsign_ are. Sirius is bisexual. He says it in his head as James leads them back into the chorus. Sirius Black is bisexual, and he’s pretty sure he’s in love with one Remus fucking Lupin.

_“‘Cause I think it could be love, but I can’t show you enough.”_ Sirius looks right at Remus, right into those whisky-malt eyes. _“I wanna burn through the atmosphere, soar like a meteor tonight.”_

The song fades, Regulus playing them out with a chord that feels like starlight itself. The crowd is going _wild_. Sirius has never heard a crowd cheer like this, but they’re all stamping and clapping, whooping, screaming. Every face he sees in the crowd, distinct amongst the blur of limbs and hair, is grinning ear to ear. Some people are crying, he thinks, tears of joy, recognition, acceptance, and he wonders if his own eyes are a little misty. His fingers are shaking as he mutters a _thank you_ into the microphone, then looks down for Remus again.

Remus is handing his camera to his friend with the purple hair. For a terrifying moment Sirius thinks he’s going to just walk out, that Sirius has embarrassed him or gone too far, but then he grins up at Sirius and holds a hand out. Sirius’ heart _hurts_. Their hands are clammy as Sirius clasps them together and pulls Remus up on stage with him. The crowd are silent for just the briefest of moments before they cheer again.

Sirius is burning, soaring, flying, meteoric, as he winds an arm around Remus’ waist. The Scot is grinning broadly as he leans in and kisses Sirius. He’s still a little out of breath from the song, sweat-sheened and jittering with adrenaline, but Remus tastes _beautiful_. The crowd are going wild, Regulus, Lily and James playing a little tremor of music to accompany them.

“Yeah, I think it could be too,” Remus whispers against his lips, more breath than sound, all feeling, like starlight, gravity, sensation. Satellites no longer.

* * *

Remus’ flat is full of personality. His roommates—the purple haired girl, another he doesn’t like very much—are out, so they have the place to themselves. Sirius has left his bandmates with a smile, halfway through the afterparty and eager to do what he’s wanted to for _months_. With nothing to hide anymore, Sirius took Remus’ hand and pulled him out of the bar, not caring who saw.

“You want a drink?” Remus asks, still holding Sirius’ hand as he toes off his boots. Sirius does the same, looking around the hallway. It’s all wonderfully high ceilings, hardwood floors, full of kitsch things and art all over the walls.

“Yeah, alright,” Sirius mutters, giving his hand a squeeze before shrugging out of his jacket. “What have you got?”

“Two measures of whisky I’ve been saving for something special.” Remus smiles, the corner of his mouth crooking.

“That’s tonight?” Sirius asks, teasing. He gets a sharp tug on his arm that pulls him in towards Remus in answer.

“Aye, it is, you fucking dick,” Remus says lowly, smiling ear to ear before he kisses Sirius on the mouth. “You wrote me a _song_ , that’s a special occasion.”

Sirius grins, his heart feeling warm and golden. He winds both arms around Remus’ waist, pulls him close. Their noses nudge together for a moment, Sirius’ straight nose with Remus’ freckle-spattered crooked one. It’s wonderful. “I’m glad you liked it babe.”

“Of course I did,” Remus shoots back, rolling his eyes as he tugs Sirius into what turns out to be the kitchen.

There’s a bottle of whisky on a high shelf that Remus stretches up to reach and uncorks with a satisfying pop. The two glasses he pours the remainder of the amber liquid into are Star Wars themed and Sirius chuckles as the lightsaber on it changes colour when he adds the whisky. “Those are ridiculous,” he mutters, watching with unfettered adoration. It _is_ love, fluttering in his ribcage, and he holds tight to it.

Remus grins. “Great, huh?” He asks, holding one glass out to Sirius. When he takes it, Remus raises his own—ice cubes clinking—and tilts his head just slightly. He blushes furiously before he speaks. “To, uh, _colliding_ , then?”

“To colliding,” Sirius echoes, raising his glass before he takes a sip. Remus looks lovely here, in this flat, leaning against the kitchen counter. Sirius has missed him so intently these past few weeks, so often on his mind thanks to _Satellites_ , but now they’re here, and they’ve collided, both burning up, crash-landing on some far-flung planet where it’s just the two of them.

Remus takes another sip of his drink, watching Sirius as carefully as Sirius is watching him. “What now?”

Sirius shrugs a shoulder, feeling wisps of hair falling down from the ponytail he’d thrown it up into after the show. He can think of a thousand things. He wants to taste every inch of Remus, he wants to curl up in bed with Remus’ head in his lap and talk about nothing, he wants to stay here forever. He wants to do everything, can’t just pick one thing. “You tell me.”

“Ha… okay.” Remus sips his drink again, then sets it down. “Come here and kiss me, then.”

“A bit forward?” Sirius smiles, setting his own glass down with a _thunk_ on the side. But he peels his hips away from the counter, pads over to where Remus is leaning. He plants one hand on the counter beside Remus’ hip, then the other on the other side, caging him in.

Remus chuckles. “I have been desperate to shag you ever since you sang a song you wrote for me to nearly 2000 people, Sirius,” he murmurs, tilting his head just to the side, tipping his chin up so his breath hits Sirius’ lips. “If this is forward, after what filthy shit you’ve said to me over the phone, then we have a problem.”

Sirius kisses him. He doesn’t have a choice, his arms bracketed either side of Remus’ hips, whisky on the air between them and Sirius’ insides twisting with desire. He wants this, they both want it, desperately. Remus makes a noise into the kiss, his arms coming up to loop around Sirius’ neck. They press close, in the kitchen with the sounds of the city rumbling past them outside, slotting together. Remus’ fingers thread through Sirius’ still sweat-damp hair as Sirius’ hook beneath the hem of his shirt— _The Ramones_ this time—to press against the soft skin of his lower back.

“Mm, how—” Remus asks a few minutes later, breathless from kisses and the proximity of their bodies— “ridiculous would it be—” more kisses, Sirius can’t get enough of him— “to make out to the song you wrote me?”

A laugh bubbles from Sirius’ throat, one hand stroking up the gentle curve of Remus’ spine. “Mm, completely ridiculous,” he mutters, nipping briefly at Remus’ bottom lip. “But let’s do it.”

“My room.” Remus scatters kisses across the angle of Sirius’ cheekbone, around the hairline at his temple. “I have good speakers. And a bed.”

Sirius’ snicker sounds just as teasing as he intends it as Remus breaks away, slips out of the circle of his arms and starts across the kitchen. He keeps his hand on Remus’ lower back as he leads him through the hallway. Remus rolls his eyes as he pushes open the door to his room.

“You’d be horny too,” Remus says, palming across the wall for the light switch, “if a complete hottie wrote you a song and sang it to a venue full of people in front of you.” He pulls Sirius into the room and shuts the door behind them. “Then add the fact it was a total surprise, and said song was him admitting he thinks he might be in love with me?”

Sirius laughs, latching his arm back around Remus’ waist. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to Remus’ cheek. “I am, for what it’s worth, quite horny.”

Remus makes a soft noise at the back of his throat, something akin to a moan as he steps into the room proper. It screams _Remus_ , with a large desk full of computer and photography equipment. Sirius thinks some of these lenses might cost more than his Fujigen. He has both the St Andrew’s flag and the LGBT flag hung above his bed, complete with plaid sheets, messy and wrinkled.

Later, Sirius wants to learn everything he can about Remus, study the bookcase against one wall, siton the bed and watch him edit the photos from this evening, drink tea or whisky sat together under the covers, swapping life stories. Right now, though, Sirius wants to crawl into bed with Remus and make up for all the time they’ve missed.

“Put on your sappy song, then,” Remus says, padding over to the bookcase to turn on the Bluetooth speaker sitting there. He’s grinning ear to ear, trying to hide it, Sirius thinks, but he doesn’t bother to dampen his own smile. He pulls his phone out and pulls up the awful recording he’s knocked together of _Satellites_. The band group chat is buzzing, but Sirius switches his phone onto silent and sets it on the nightstand. He can be with Remus tonight.

Sirius sits on the edge of the bed as Remus adjusts the volume of the speakers. The opening chords are a little tinny, but it’s not the speakers, more just the fact this is arguably the roughest mix Sirius has let anyone outside of the band ever listen to. “There. Will it do?”

Remus turns to him properly, smiling now, with a pink blush suffused over the bridge of his nose. “More than,” he says softly, like admitting the deepest secret. “It’s amazing, and you know it.”

Sirius’ hands fit to the outsides of Remus’ thighs as the other man comes to stand in front of him. “Mm, if you say so. It’s yours.” He tilts his head, digs his fingers in just a little because Remus is here. “God, look at you. You’re gorgeous.”

“Oh shut up, you legitimate rockstar,” Remus shoots back, his hands going to Sirius’ shoulders a moment before Sirius tugs him into his lap. Remus laughs, shifting to straddle his thighs, and then they’re kissing again, like oxygen, sustenance, lifeblood. Sirius shifts back, lifts his hips, Remus pushes him just a little, urging them both back to tangle together.

Remus’ shirt comes off first, tossed aside so Sirius can fasten his mouth to the other man’s collarbone, suck a mark there rimmed in teeth. Remus sinks back into the bed and Sirius crawls atop him, hands incessant on his shoulders to press him into the bed where Sirius can turn him into some beautiful vista, hear his gasps and moans, watch him flush and writhe.

“Fuck, Sirius,” Remus groans, shoulders arching up off the bed. He fumbles with the hem of Sirius’ shirt, pulls it up and tosses it aside.

“God, look at you. I’ve been fucking _dreaming_ about this, babe.” Sirius leans up a little, scraping a hand through his hair to push it back from his face.

“Yeah? Tell me, tell me what you dreamed about thinking of me.” Remus’ fingers tangle in Sirius’ hair, pulling him back down for a hungry kiss. He nips at Sirius’ lip, slides his tongue between Sirius’ teeth to taste the angel’s share of whisky.

Sirius’ cock gives a twitch beneath his jeans, making him cant his hips forward to roll against Remus’ thigh. “Having you like this, looking down at you all flushed. I want to take you apart, babe. I keep dreaming about every way I can do it. What do you want?”

Remus scrapes his teeth over his lower lip, his honey gaze flickering over Sirius’ face. He doesn’t answer for a moment, trailing his fingernails down Sirius’ stomach, to palm over the swell of his cock. “You. I want you naked, I want to take—take my time, take _our_ time.”

“Yeah, god,” Sirius grits out, tipping his head back a little. He thinks of last time they were like this in person, the way they were both so fucking _desperate_ for each other they’d barely taken their clothes off, got a hand around each other and tried to commit the sensation to memory. “We have all night, all morning.”

Remus makes the softest noise in response, lifting his hips, before he sits up and tugs almost frantically at Sirius’ jeans. “I want you _now_ ,” he says, as the song repeats again and the opening chord starts. Sirius is soaring, burning bright, as he kicks his jeans off, then his pants. Remus makes another noise, rougher now, lifting his hips, and Sirius can’t do anything but drag them down his legs, so obscenely tight compared to his oversized shirt and Sirius loves it. They shed Remus’ clothes quickly, breathless and fumbling, and Sirius slots his knee between Remus’ thighs.

Last time, they were so desperate, and Sirius was sure they’d take their time—they’d just said, hadn’t they?—but now Remus is naked in front of him and he can’t _think_. Remus sits up and kisses him hard on the mouth, his hands dragging down Sirius’ back, pressing their hips closer.

“I dinnae care, Sirius, just, ah, I want you,” Remus murmurs into the space between Sirius’ lips, moaning softly.

The song repeats again, and again. Regulus’ chords like starlight, Sirius’ own vocals, Lily’s backing vocals, James like a heartbeat, in syncopation with Sirius’ heartbeat. Sirius ends up on his back, Remus straddling his thighs. It feels like those nights where Sirius would stare at his phone screen, Remus’ face limned in blue light, but now Remus is here and so beautifully worked up.

“ _Shit,_ babe,” Sirius moans, lifting his hips to press against Remus’. The slide of hot flesh makes him shudder, the slip of pre-come, Remus’ cock against his, leaves a smear of it against the divot of his hipbone.

Remus drops his chin to his chest, the low light of the lamp he’d switched on earlier catching over the sheened bridge of his nose. “God, we can—fuck, talk the talk, but right now I just wanna—just want you.”

Sirius lifts his hips at the delicious high point of Remus’ canting forwards, encouraging Remus to just _rut_ against him with his hands on Remus’ arse. He might leave fingerprints on the swell of his arse cheeks but it fills him with a particular kind of thrill. He’ll wake Remus up by kissing each individual one tomorrow morning.

_And we orbit fast, but I will we could collide_.

“Mm, s’okay. We have, ah, all the time we need, babe. God, you look so good, you _feel_ so good. I’ve missed this,” Sirius murmurs, between kisses that are more teeth and gasps than anything tender or romantic. But there’s romance there; messy, frantic, adoring romance, but it’s romance nonetheless.

Remus gives a sharp little nod, his thighs trembling around Sirius’ where they’re tangled together, fitted like the piece of a puzzle. “Fuck, aye. I’ve—ah, you’re fucking gorgeous, you’re so—” He cuts himself off with a beautiful moan, spilling richly over Sirius’ thigh, over his _cock_ , hot and slick. That noise is familiar now, Remus coming, his shoulders drawing high and tense, his stomach muscles fluttering. But the sensation is something deliciously new, still. It’s the newness of it, the fact that Remus is _here_ in the flesh, straddling Sirius’ thighs. He lifts one shaking hand to cup Remus’ cheek, wanting to savour every little bit of contact he can get as Remus is shuddering with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“Shit, look at you, God, I’m so close, ‘m so close,” Sirius mutters, lifting his hips, feeling desire and pleasure, desperation, completion like the implosion of a star, drawing closer, gathering, threading, weaving. Sirius comes a few moments later, moaning low with one hand still gripping Remus’ thigh, right where it meets the curve of his arse, and the other twisting in the bedsheets. It doesn’t take much, something messy and uncoordinated and the rough slide-friction of their skin together because it means they’re _here_ , together.

It’s a while later when they move, untangle themselves from the mess of limbs they’ve sprawled into, and take turns in the bathroom to clean up. They trade idle kisses in between, gentle little passes of skin on skin, a hand on an arm as they step past. _Satellites_ is still playing through the Bluetooth speakers as Sirius pulls his jeans back on—low on his hips, undone, because he’s too sweaty and they’re probably going to come off again soon—and Remus slips on some plaid pyjama bottoms before they sit back on the bed.

“Better live,” Remus hums, tilting his head to rest onto Sirius’ shoulder. His forefinger idly traces the threadbare-patch-turned-rip near the knee of Sirius’ jeans.

Sirius snickers. “One of those music purists, huh?” He mumbles into the untamed mass of Remus’ curls, pressing a kiss there.

“Nah, just rather partial to watching you play, it’s all part of the atmosphere, aye.”

“Mmm, shame.”

Remus is quiet for a moment longer before he seems to perk up a little, inhaling in the way Sirius has begun to recognise that means he’s about to say something. “Will you humour me?”

“Probably.” Sirius’ comment is dry as he reaches for his cigarettes on the side, but it’s true, he probably will.

“Okay, I’m gonna go get our whisky… because I just realised we’d left that in the kitchen.”

“Someone was too horny,” Sirius says, sliding a cigarette between the part of his lips.

“Yeah, you.”

Sirius watches, tilting his head, as Remus slips off the bed and out of the doorway, leaving it ajar. God, he’s so gorgeous, and Sirius is sprawled in his bed. Bookcase to his right, stocked full of things so _Remus_ it’s like a timeline of him. The desk to the left is near-overflowing with equipment Sirius wouldn’t even begin to know how to name, but it’s all so Remus, the coffee cup amongst the lens, balled-up paper, a beanie hat put over a lens like a bizarre hat stand. Sirius chuckles to himself, blissful, as he takes a drag of his cigarette and taps the ash into the ashtray on the bedside table.

After a few moments, Sirius hears a clatter, then a stream of swears. Remus sounds horrifically Scottish and it makes something between affection and laughter brew in the back of Sirius’ throat. “Are you alright?” He calls, sitting forward when he hears another clatter.

“Aye, fine,” Remus calls back, then appears in the doorway. In one hand he has both whisky glasses, and in the other he’s holding the neck of a guitar. Sirius can tell, from years of being around the instruments and being _incredibly_ picky about his guitars, that this one, objectively, is _shit._

Sirius raises an eyebrow, stubbing his cigarette out. “Where did you pull that from?”

“It’s David’s,” Remus says, and that must be his other roommate. He crosses to the bed and sits back down, tucking one leg under him. “Will you play it for me?”

“It’s awful, did he get it off the kerb?” Sirius sits up, takes the guitar from him anyway as Remus tucks himself against Sirius’ side.

“Probably,” Remus says lightly, sipping his whisky. “You can work your magic, I’m sure.”

Sirius gives the strings an experimental strum and winces when it’s _horribly_ out of tune. Remus snickers, pressing his mouth to Sirius’ shoulder. It’s really awful, makes Sirius sort of want to vomit, but Remus wants him to play, so he plucks each string and tunes them to a hum of each note. Remus watches intently—Sirius can see him in the corner of his eye, one corner of his mouth curled, satisfaction etched into every line of his face—as he does, and when he gives another strum, both of them sigh in relief.

“Any requests, babe?” Sirius turns his head just enough to murmur against the top of Remus’ head, drop another kiss there. Remus doesn’t speak for a moment, leaning over to snag his camera up by the strap. Sirius watches with overflowing adoration as he presses a few buttons, then snaps a photograph of Sirius there, undone jeans, a guitar better suited to a trash dump in his lap.

“ _Satellites_.”

Sirius closes his eyes, hums something in agreement, and strums that opening chord.


End file.
